#loki needs someone to be soft | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

urdreamydoodles · 2 months ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your lover learns that you are a mutant, and decides to act against the world that hates your kind

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter had always known there was something different about you. It wasn’t the kind of different that made his Spider-Sense tingle, nor was it something he could quite put his finger on. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way your eyes flickered with an unspoken sadness when the news blared stories of mutant riots, the way you tensed when someone spat out the word like it was venom on their tongue. But he never pushed—he knew what it was like to have secrets, to cradle them close like fragile things that could shatter in the wrong hands.

- But when you finally told him, when you stood before him with your hands trembling and your voice barely above a whisper, Peter felt his heart break for you. Not because you were a mutant—God, no—but because you had lived your whole life expecting rejection, even from him. His first instinct was to pull you into his arms, to wrap you in the warmth of his love, to whisper against your hair, "You could never be anything but perfect to me." And when he pulled back, cupping your face in his calloused hands, he met your gaze with unwavering devotion. "I'm so sorry the world made you feel like you had to hide from me."

- From that moment, Peter became your fiercest protector—not that you needed protecting, but love made him reckless. He confronted every slur, every cruel whisper, every venom-laced comment spat your way. When J. Jonah Jameson ran another anti-mutant headline in the Daily Bugle, Peter slammed the paper down on his desk and walked out, his voice shaking with rage. When a man sneered at you on the subway, Peter’s hand found yours, fingers threading together as he stared the man down until he looked away.

- But it wasn’t just anger that drove him—it was justice. He swung through the city, stopping hate crimes against mutants with the same ferocity he used against criminals. He used his platform, his voice, his every breath to push back against the tide of bigotry. "You think mutants are dangerous? Maybe you should look in the mirror." And when people asked why he cared so much, why Spider-Man fought so hard for them, he would simply smile under his mask and say, "Because someone I love is one of them. And I’ll be damned if I let the world treat them like anything less than extraordinary."

- At night, when the world was quiet, Peter would hold you like you were something sacred, tracing the lines of your hands with his fingertips, memorizing you like poetry. "You know, the only thing that ever scared me about you being a mutant," he would whisper against your temple, "is the thought that you'd ever think I could love you any less because of it." And then he would kiss you—soft, reverent, as if every heartbeat between you was a promise.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony had always been a man of logic, of science, of equations that made sense and theories that could be proven. But love was neither logical nor quantifiable, and when it came to you, he was hopelessly tangled in the chaos of it. He had seen the way you hesitated when mutant protests flashed across the screen, the way your fingers curled into your palms when politicians spoke of registration, control, fear. He had seen it, but he had never asked. He had always figured that if you wanted to tell him, you would.

- And then, one night, you did. The confession spilled from your lips like something fragile and broken, years of pain woven between every syllable. You had expected disgust, anger, maybe even that cold indifference the world had always shown you. But Tony Stark was not the world. He was Tony Stark, and he laughed—actually laughed—before pulling you into his arms. "Sweetheart," he murmured against your hair, "did you really think I'd care? You could have told me you were an alien princess from the Andromeda Galaxy, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing."

- But beneath the bravado, beneath the charm, there was fury—cold and sharp, pressing against his ribs like a blade. How dare the world make you feel this way? How dare they make you hide, make you think that love was something that came with conditions? The next time a senator spewed anti-mutant rhetoric at a gala, Tony took a long sip of his whiskey, smiled that sharp, wolfish smile, and said, "Funny, I was just thinking how the world would be a better place if we registered bigots instead."

- And then there were the grand gestures—because Tony Stark didn’t do things halfway. He poured billions into mutant advocacy programs, bought out entire networks to air pro-mutant campaigns, stood before the world in a press conference and said, "I’ve seen the future, and let me tell you—it’s not built on hate. It’s built on evolution, on progress, on people who are stronger than you could ever hope to be." And when people asked him why, when reporters pried for answers, he only ever said, "Because someone I love deserves better."

- In the quiet of the workshop, with only the hum of machinery and the glow of arc reactors around you, Tony would pull you onto his lap, pressing his lips against your temple. "You know," he murmured, "mutant, human, robot—whatever you are, you’re mine. And that’s the only thing that matters."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve had fought wars—on battlefields, in back alleys, in the hearts and minds of the people. He had seen the worst of humanity, had watched hatred take root and grow like a disease. And yet, nothing prepared him for the way his heart ached when you finally told him the truth. It wasn’t anger, wasn’t disappointment—just a slow, dawning grief, not because you were a mutant, but because you had been afraid to tell him. "I fought against people like that," he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. "People who thought they had the right to decide who was worthy of freedom. I won’t let them do that to you."

- From that day on, Steve became your shield in more ways than one. Not just in battle, but in life. He corrected people when they spoke with ignorance, stood in front of you when the world turned cruel. And when someone had the audacity to say, "But Captain, they’re a mutant—aren’t you afraid?" he would square his shoulders, fix them with that unshakable gaze, and say, "Afraid? Of someone stronger, braver, and better than you? Not in a million years."

- He marched in mutant rallies, stood before congressmen and looked them in the eye when they tried to push their agendas of fear. "I fought a war to stop people like you," he told them, voice steady, unwavering. "And I’ll fight another if I have to." His words spread like wildfire, his name became a beacon. If Captain America stood with mutants, then maybe—just maybe—the world would listen.

- But for all the battles he fought, for all the speeches and protests, what mattered most was how he loved you. In the early mornings, when the sun painted your skin in gold, he would trace slow, reverent lines along your arms, pressing kisses to every inch of you. "You are everything they’re afraid of," he murmured against your lips. "And that makes you extraordinary."

- And when the world felt too heavy, when the weight of their hatred threatened to drown you, Steve would hold you close, forehead pressed to yours, his voice a quiet vow. "They’ll never take this from us," he swore. "Not while I’m standing."

Thor

- Thor had seen many things across the realms—gods and monsters, heroes and villains, beings of power and light and darkness. But when you told him, when you stood before him with your heart in your hands, his reaction was as simple as the man himself. He laughed—a deep, joyous sound that shook the very walls—and swept you into his arms. "You think I would love you less for being different?" he asked, pressing a kiss to your brow. "My love, I am a god from another world. It is you who should look upon me with suspicion!"

- But beneath his laughter was rage—not at you, never at you—but at the world that had made you feel unworthy. He could not understand it, this Midgardian hatred for those who were different. On Asgard, power was revered, bloodlines celebrated. But here, on this fragile little world, fear turned to violence. And Thor had never been one to stand idly by in the face of injustice.

- When he heard men speak against mutants, he did not argue—he roared. His voice thundered through the halls of their governments, shaking the foundations of their hate. "You would condemn those who are stronger than you?" he bellowed. "Then I ask you—would you dare call ME an abomination?" And when they faltered, when they could not meet his gaze, he would smirk and say, "That is what I thought."

- But it was in the quiet moments that his love shone brightest. When he held you beneath the stars, his fingers tracing constellations against your skin. "You are power, you are fire, you are the storm itself," he whispered. "Let them fear you. Let them tremble. But know this, my love—I will stand beside you, always."

- And if the world would not change, if it refused to see the beauty in you, then Thor Odinson would remind them why the gods were to be feared.

Loki

- Loki had always known. He had known from the moment he first looked into your eyes, from the way you flinched at whispered slurs, the way your breath hitched when the world spoke of your kind like a disease. He knew, because he was the same. Always other, always different, always a thing to be feared rather than loved. So when you told him, when the words finally left your lips like a confession, he only tilted his head and smirked. "Did you think I would not see you for what you are?" he murmured, tracing a finger along your jaw. "Did you think I would ever love you less?"

- But behind his smirk, there was fire. Loki had spent his life at the mercy of those who saw difference as weakness, and he would not see you suffer the same. He did not fight with fists or shields—he fought with words, with illusions, with tricks that made fools of those who thought themselves mighty. He whispered secrets into the ears of kings, sowed doubt in the hearts of senators. And when they spoke against mutants, when they spat their venom into the world, Loki only smiled and made them choke on their own lies.

- He did not seek to change the world’s mind—he sought to burn it down. "Why should you suffer their hatred?" he asked one night, his voice soft, dangerous. "Why not take your place above them?" And when you shook your head, when you refused to become the monster they feared, he only sighed and kissed your forehead. "Then let them tremble," he murmured. "For you are far greater than they will ever understand."

- And when the nights were long and your heart was heavy, when the weight of the world pressed against your ribs like iron chains, Loki would pull you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Let them call us monsters," he whispered. "Let them fear us. But know this, my love—you will never stand alone."

- And as the fires of hatred raged across Midgard, Loki only smiled, watching as the world shifted and twisted in the palm of his hand. Because if there was one thing the Trickster God knew, it was this—love was the most dangerous magic of all.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint had always been good at spotting the things people tried to hide. It was an instinct sharpened by years of survival, a skill born from growing up in the gutters of a world that didn’t care if he lived or died. He could read people like maps, see the tells in their hands, the flickers in their expressions, the hesitations in their words. And he had seen it in you—the way you flinched at anti-mutant slurs, the way your shoulders stiffened at the news, the way your smile never quite reached your eyes when people spoke of them like they were a disease. But he never pushed. He just waited, patient as ever, because love wasn’t about forcing doors open—it was about letting someone hand you the key.

- When you finally told him, when the words left your lips in a whisper so fragile it could have shattered, Clint didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He only leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and smirked. “Well, that explains why you’re so much cooler than me.” The joke was light, effortless, but there was something in his eyes—something sharp, something raw. “You really think I’d care?” he asked, voice softer now. And when you looked away, when the weight of the world threatened to crush you, he reached for you, tugging you into his arms with a sigh. “Babe, I don’t care if you’ve got laser eyes or can turn people into frogs—I’m still gonna make bad jokes and steal the covers at night.”

- But beneath the easygoing attitude, there was fire. The next time someone sneered "mutie" under their breath, Clint didn’t let it slide. He was in their face before they even realized what was happening, blue eyes flashing like ice, his tone deceptively casual. “What was that, buddy? Didn’t quite catch it.” And when the man stammered, when he tried to backpedal, Clint only smirked. “That’s what I thought.” He didn’t need to throw punches—his words cut sharper than any arrow.

- But when words weren’t enough, when hatred turned to violence, Clint was the first to stand in front of you, bow drawn, eyes cold. “Pick on someone your own size,” he would say, voice a quiet promise of violence. Because if there was one thing Clint Barton never tolerated, it was bullies. And he wasn’t about to let the world take one more thing from you.

- At night, when the city lights flickered outside your window, when the weight of your past felt too heavy to bear, Clint would pull you close, pressing lazy kisses to your temple. “You don’t ever have to hide from me,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Not from me, not from anyone. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart. Get used to it.”

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha had spent her entire life learning how to read people, how to peel them apart layer by layer until there was nothing left to hide. But you—you were the one puzzle she had never solved, the one mystery she never wanted to crack open with force. She had seen the way your hands trembled when the news spat their venom about mutants, the way your gaze flickered with something like fear when the subject came up. She didn’t push. She knew better than anyone that secrets were stitched into the skin, that some wounds bled even when they weren’t visible.

- But when you finally told her, when the words fell from your lips like something broken, Natasha only tilted her head, studying you with those sharp green eyes. And then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it, she whispered, “I know.” She had known for a while—had put the pieces together long before you ever spoke the words aloud. But she also knew that trust wasn’t something given freely, that love wasn’t about demanding answers. It was about waiting.

- And if you thought, for even a second, that Natasha Romanoff would love you any less, you didn’t know her at all. “Do you think I care?” she asked, voice steady, unwavering. “Do you think I would ever let the world decide how I see you?” And when your breath hitched, when your hands clenched into fists, she stepped closer, pressing her forehead against yours. “I have spent my life being what other people wanted me to be. I will never ask that of you.”

- But if she had been quiet before, if she had let comments about mutants pass unchallenged in the name of discretion, that changed. Natasha was no stranger to political warfare, to the slow, methodical dismantling of enemies without ever lifting a gun. When senators pushed for anti-mutant laws, she ruined them before they ever saw it coming. When anti-mutant organizations rose, they found their files wiped, their bank accounts drained, their secrets exposed. "You hurt them," she whispered into the ear of a man who had called for mutant executions, "and I will erase you."

- At home, in the safety of her arms, Natasha was softer. She kissed your knuckles like they were something sacred, traced patterns against your skin as if memorizing every inch of you. “You don’t have to hide anymore,” she whispered against your lips. “Not from me.”

Bucky Barnes (The Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knew what it was like to be feared. He knew what it was like to have people look at you like you were something less than human, like you were a weapon instead of a person. And when you finally told him, when you whispered the truth into the quiet of your shared apartment, his jaw clenched. Not at you, never at you—but at the world that had made you feel like this, that had made you afraid to tell the one person who loved you most.

- He didn’t speak right away, just reached for you, his metal fingers cool against your skin, his touch gentle. “Doll,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, “I’ve done things that would make the devil blush. And you think I’d ever judge you for being born different?”

- But after that, something changed. Bucky had always kept his head down, had always stayed in the shadows when it came to politics and public opinion. But now? Now he was a storm waiting to break. He walked into rooms where men spoke of mutants like they were vermin and let his presence alone silence them. And when they still had the audacity to sneer, to whisper, he let them see the Winter Soldier lurking just beneath his skin. “Say it again,” he dared, voice low, dangerous.

- And God help anyone who laid a hand on you. Bucky didn’t just stop fights—he ended them. He didn’t care if it made him a threat, if it made people wary of him again. He had spent too many years fighting the wrong battles. He would not lose you to their hatred.

- But when the night was quiet, when the world faded away, Bucky was just Bucky. He held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered, pressed his lips to your shoulder as if grounding himself in the feeling of you. “I know what it’s like to feel like a ghost in your own skin,” he murmured. “But you? You’re more alive than anyone I’ve ever known.”

- The moment you told Matt, his expression barely flickered. No sharp inhale, no startled pause. He only tilted his head slightly, listening to the sound of your heartbeat thudding like a bird trapped in a cage. He had suspected, of course—Matt could hear the way your breath hitched when someone spat slurs against mutants, could feel the tension coil in your muscles when the news spewed their poison. But he had never pried. He knew what it was like to carry a secret, to guard it like a wound that might never heal.

- When you finished speaking, silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. And then, softly, Matt reached for you, his fingers brushing against your wrist before lacing through your own. "You really thought I'd turn away?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. He lifted a hand to your cheek, tracing the shape of you as if committing it to memory all over again. "I know what it's like to be something the world hates. I know what it’s like to be called a monster." His voice was steady, but there was something fierce in it—something that said, I will never let them take this from us.

- After that, Matt stopped holding back. If he had once measured his words when it came to mutant discrimination, now he tore through lies like a blade through silk. In courtrooms, he dismantled anti-mutant legislation with the same brutal precision he used to take down criminals in the streets. "Your Honor, I wonder—if my client were anything other than a mutant, would we even be having this discussion?" And in the dead of night, when those same men conspired in alleyways and behind closed doors, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen made them regret every word.

- But when he was with you, when it was just the two of you in the quiet of your apartment, Matt was softer. He pulled you into his lap, let his hands roam as if learning every inch of you anew. "You're not a sin," he murmured against your skin. "You're not something to be ashamed of." And when you whispered that the world would never stop hating people like you, his grip tightened, his voice dark with promise. "Then let them fear me instead."

- Because if the world wanted a devil, Matt would give them one.

Frank Castle (The Punisher)

- Frank didn't react the way you expected. He didn’t ask why you hadn’t told him sooner. Didn’t ask how you’d been hiding it for so long. He just stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. And then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That why you were afraid?" he asked, voice rough as gravel. "That I’d look at you different?" His brows furrowed, something dark flashing in his gaze. "You really think that little of me?"

- After that, Frank made his stance on mutants crystal clear. There were men—rich, powerful men—who thought they could wipe out mutantkind in silence, who thought they could hunt people like you without consequence. Frank made sure they learned otherwise. When a senator proposed mutant registration, he found his car a smoking ruin. When a high-ranking mutant-hating official disappeared, no one ever found the body.

- Frank didn’t fight for mutant rights in the public eye. He didn’t make speeches, didn’t march in protests. But when someone threatened you, threatened people like you, they disappeared. It wasn’t justice. It was punishment. It was war. And Frank Castle didn’t lose wars.

- But when he was with you, when the blood and the violence faded into the background, Frank was different. He held you close, his touch bruising but gentle, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers. "You ain't gotta be scared no more," he murmured against your hair. "Not while I’m breathin’."

- And God help anyone who ever tried to hurt you. Because Frank Castle didn’t believe in mercy.

Bullseye (Lester)

- When you finally told Bullseye, you braced yourself for disgust, for cruelty, for one of his sharp, cutting laughs. But instead, he just blinked at you once, twice—then tilted his head with a smirk. "That’s what you were scared of?" His voice was pure amusement, laced with something darker. "Oh, sweetheart. You should know by now—I don’t give a damn what you are. Long as you bleed like the rest of ‘em."

- And that was it. No anger, no questions, no sympathy. He didn’t treat you like you were fragile. Didn’t tell you that you were special. Bullseye loved destruction, loved chaos, and knowing that you were something the world feared? It only made you more interesting to him.

- But after that, something in him shifted. He took extra pleasure in tearing apart anti-mutant extremists, in carving his own brand of justice into their skin. If someone so much as looked at you wrong, he made sure they never did it again. "Gotta admit," he murmured one night, flicking a bloodstained knife between his fingers. "It’s fun, huntin’ those bastards down. Feels like a goddamn sport."

- But despite his cruelty, despite his madness, there were moments of startling softness. He would run his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, twirl a strand around his finger, murmur against your skin, "You really thought I’d hate you? Sweetheart, I’m not the one who’s ever gonna leave." And that was the most terrifying thing of all—because with Bullseye, love wasn’t gentle. It was obsession.

- He didn’t just accept you. He worshiped you. And in the end, that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc had always known you were hiding something. He saw it in the way your body tensed when people talked about mutants, in the way you flinched when a headline spat venom about the so-called "mutant problem." He had spent his life surrounded by secrets, drowning in them, and he could feel yours pressing against you like a second skin. But he never forced it out of you. Marc knew that secrets weren’t pried open—they were given, piece by piece, when the weight of them became too much to bear.

- When you finally told him, your voice was barely more than a whisper, as if the confession alone might break you. For a long moment, Marc didn’t say anything. He just stared, unreadable, his hands curling into fists at his sides. But then—"That’s it?" His voice was quiet, rough, like gravel scraping against pavement. He shook his head, almost scoffing. "You really thought I’d turn my back on you?" And then, softer, his hand reaching for yours, "I’ve been Khonshu’s blade, a mercenary, a killer. You think being born different is what’s gonna change how I see you?"

- After that, something in Marc burned hotter, fiercer. He had never been one to hold his tongue, but now? Now, he was ruthless. When a politician spewed anti-mutant rhetoric, their life crumbled overnight. When hate groups targeted mutants, they found themselves hunted in the dark, their screams lost to the night. He never let you see the worst of it—never let you know just how far he went. But when you traced the bruises on his knuckles, when you saw the fresh cuts on his skin, you knew.

- "They don’t get to win," he told you one night, his voice low, dangerous. "Not while I’m still breathing." And when you tried to tell him that you were used to it, that it didn’t matter, he caught your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. "It matters to me."

- When the nightmares came, when the weight of it all became too much, Marc held you close, his breath warm against your hair. "I’m not going anywhere," he murmured against your temple. And even when his mind fractured, even when he got lost in the chaos of himself, he always found his way back to you.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster was many things—a killer, a mercenary, a man whose entire life revolved around reading people. And he had read you like an open book the moment he met you. The tension in your shoulders, the hesitation in your voice whenever the topic of mutants came up—he had seen it all, memorized it. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what you were. But he waited. If you wanted to keep your secret, he wasn’t going to be the one to take it from you.

- But when you finally told him, your voice tight with fear, he just… shrugged. "Yeah. And?" His tone was almost lazy, like it was the most uninteresting thing in the world. When you gaped at him, confusion written all over your face, he only smirked. "Sweetheart, I’ve worked for the worst people you can imagine. You think I care about something like that?" His smirk faded then, his voice turning serious. "You’re mine. That’s all that matters."

- After that, he didn’t just accept it—he weaponized it. If someone so much as looked at you wrong, they didn’t get a second chance. Taskmaster didn’t do morality, didn’t fight for justice. But he did fight for you. And if hurting anti-mutant extremists meant getting a fat paycheck at the same time? Even better.

- He never made speeches, never tried to convince people they were wrong. He just made them pay. When a high-ranking government official pushed for mutant registration, they woke up to find their security detail dead and Taskmaster sitting in their living room, twirling a knife between his fingers. "You’re gonna back off," he told them, voice dangerously calm. "Or I start making this personal." They always backed off.

- But at the end of the day, when it was just the two of you, he was softer in ways he’d never admit. He let you trace the scars on his arms, let you press your forehead against his without a word. "Told ya," he murmured one night, voice almost gentle. "I don’t give a damn what you are. Long as you’re mine."

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny didn’t notice at first. He was too busy being in love with you, too caught up in the way you laughed, the way your eyes shone when you looked at him. But when you finally told him, when the words left your lips like something fragile and breakable, he froze. For the first time in his life, Johnny Storm was speechless.

- And then, after a long, terrible silence, he just—laughed. "Babe," he grinned, pulling you into his arms, "I don’t care if you’re a mutant, an alien, or a wizard. You’re still you. And you’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen." He kissed you then, like the whole world could burn and he wouldn’t care.

- But after that? Oh, he made sure everyone knew exactly where he stood. When people talked about mutants like they were a threat, Johnny cut them off with a sharp, "Oh, so now you’ve got a problem with my girlfriend? Say that again, I dare you." And when someone was dumb enough to throw insults in your direction, Johnny lit up, flames crackling around him. "Wanna say that one more time?" he grinned, voice dripping with dangerous amusement. They never did.

- He used his fame, his charm, his name to shift public opinion. He appeared on talk shows, flashing that easy grin, saying things like, "C’mon, guys, this is ridiculous. Mutants are just people. Get over it." And when protests got violent, when mutant kids were being hunted in the streets, Johnny was there, a burning shield between them and the world.

- But when it was just the two of you, when the flames had cooled, he was nothing but warmth. He pulled you against him, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. "I love you," he whispered into your skin, his voice quiet, serious. "And nothing is ever gonna change that."

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- When you finally told Reed, his first response was silence. Not because he was shocked, not because he needed time to process—but because he was calculating, rearranging every interaction you had ever shared, analyzing every moment where he had failed to see your fear. You had hidden it well, but now that he knew, the weight of it settled over him like a problem he had failed to solve.

- His hands found yours, his gaze steady. "You should have told me," he said, but there was no accusation in his voice. Only quiet regret. He lifted your fingers to his lips, his touch reverent, as if he could rewrite history with something as simple as love. "You’ve carried this alone for too long." And then, with something firmer, something unshakable: "You never have to again."

- From that moment on, Reed became your shield in ways you never expected. He wrote papers dismantling anti-mutant pseudoscience, tore down bigotry with cold, hard fact. When politicians spoke of mutant registration, he left them grasping for counterarguments they could never find. "You claim mutation is unnatural," he said in one televised debate, eyes sharp. "Tell me, Senator—what part of the human genome would you erase? What percentage of the population do you consider a mistake?" The silence that followed was deafening.

- But beyond the science, beyond the politics, there was Reed as your lover. He spent nights in his lab, creating devices to keep you safe, scanning your DNA not to change you, but to understand you. He memorized the nuances of your abilities, mapped them in ways even you hadn’t. "You are a marvel," he told you once, voice full of awe. And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

- And when you lay beside him in the quiet of the Baxter Building, when he pulled you against him with hands ink-stained from endless notes written in your defense, you realized something else: Reed Richards did not love in halves. He was methodical, relentless, infinite. And now, he was yours.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- When you told Ben, his first reaction was a long, slow blink. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and ruffled your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. "That’s what you were scared of?" His voice was warm, gruff, edged with something heartbreakingly gentle. "C’mon, you really think that changes a damn thing?"

- But as much as he tried to downplay it, the knowledge did change something in him. Not in how he saw you, but in how he saw the world. He had always known what it was to be feared, to be hated for something beyond his control—but this? This was different. He started noticing the way people tensed when they spoke about mutants, the way fear bled into cruelty, the way their hatred was masked as logic. And suddenly, it wasn’t just talk. It was personal.

- When someone made a crack about mutants, Ben didn’t get political. He didn’t debate. He just stood up. Let his shadow stretch long, let his presence settle heavy over the room. "You wanna run that by me again?" he rumbled, voice all gravel and quiet fury. And somehow, they never wanted to.

- But with you, Ben was nothing but soft. He pulled you against his chest, let you rest against the solid warmth of him, held you like you were something fragile in a world that had never been kind. "Yer perfect, y’know that?" he muttered one night, fingers tracing mindless patterns against your skin. And when you tried to protest, to remind him of all the ways the world had told you otherwise, he only huffed. "Nah. They don’t get to decide that. Not about you."

- And so he stayed. Through every sneer, every whispered slur, every fight that came too close to home. He stayed because you were his, and Ben Grimm had never walked away from something he loved.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- When you finally found the courage to tell Sue, she didn’t gasp, didn’t recoil—she simply reached for you, her hands framing your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, brushing her thumbs against your skin. "You must have been so scared."

- And just like that, it was no longer about what you were, but about what the world had done to you. About the weight you had carried alone, about the fear that had burrowed into your bones. And Susan Storm, for all her grace, for all her composure, had never been one to stand by while the world hurt the people she loved.

- She became fierce. Not just in words, but in action. She used her influence, her name, her power to carve out space for mutants where there had been none before. She protected, she fought, she defended. And when the world pushed back, she pushed harder.

- And when the nights were quiet, when it was just the two of you tangled together beneath the covers, she let the walls fall. "You don’t have to be strong all the time," she whispered against your temple. "Not with me."

- And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in your life, you believed her.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia’s first reaction was a slow, sharp grin. "Oh, baby," she purred, tracing a finger along your jaw. "Did you really think I’d care?" And then, with a soft chuckle, "I love you. Not whatever label the world wants to slap on you."

- But after that, things changed. Not between you and her—Felicia had always been ride-or-die—but between her and the rest of the world. She started stealing from anti-mutant organizations, draining their bank accounts, erasing their influence. She exposed corrupt politicians, left damning evidence in the hands of journalists who wouldn’t bury the truth. She didn’t just defend you—she made sure they suffered.

- And when someone dared to insult you to her face? Oh, that was a mistake. Felicia was many things—a thief, a liar, a woman who played by her own rules—but she had never been forgiving.

- But when it was just the two of you, when the world fell away, she was something softer. She pulled you close, her touch feather-light, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, "You don’t ever have to hide from me."

- And she meant it. With Felicia, there were no masks, no secrets—just you, raw and real and loved.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- You told Stephen in the dead of night, in the hush between flickering candlelight and the whispered hum of ancient spells. The words barely left your lips before you regretted them, before the years of fear coiled around your ribs like iron chains. You had seen the world turn its back on you before—had watched the disgust, the pity, the cold, clinical rejection in the eyes of those who should have loved you. And so, when Stephen only sighed, when he looked at you with something impossibly gentle, it felt like the weight of the universe shifted.

- He did not recoil, did not hesitate. Instead, he reached for you, fingers tracing the lines of your wrist as if following the constellations of your existence. "My love," he murmured, voice steeped in something ancient, something infinite, "I have walked the hidden paths of the multiverse, have spoken with beings older than time itself. Do you truly believe that something as arbitrary as human prejudice could alter the way I see you?"

- After that, Stephen became an immovable force against those who dared to speak against you. His words were blades sharper than any steel, cutting through the ignorance of men who cloaked their hatred in rhetoric. He did not rage—he did not need to. He dismantled their arguments with the ease of a scholar correcting a student, left them floundering in the wake of his intellect. And when words were not enough, when cruelty turned to violence, Stephen stood between you and the world with a shield of eldritch fire.

- He wove spells into the fabric of your existence, sigils of protection hidden in the way his hands lingered on your skin. No force, mortal or divine, could lay a hand upon you without answering to him. He would break reality itself before he allowed harm to come to you. "They will not touch what is mine," he vowed, and the universe itself seemed to bend to his will.

- And yet, in the quiet hours, when the world faded away and it was just the two of you wrapped in the sanctuary of the Sanctum, he was simply Stephen. He kissed away your fears with the patience of a man who had once lost everything, who knew what it meant to find something worth keeping. "You are not cursed," he told you one night, his voice woven with something that felt like devotion. "You are celestial." And in his arms, you could finally believe it.

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- The weight of your secret had always been heavier in his presence. Namor was not a man accustomed to softness, not a man who bent to the whims of others. His love was a tempest, fierce and unrelenting, and you had never known if that storm would hold you or tear you apart. But when you finally told him, when the truth finally slipped past your lips like a confession carved in blood, the air between you went still.

- He did not speak for a long moment. His gaze was unreadable, sharp as a blade honed for war. And then—"You feared I would turn from you?" His voice was quiet, but there was something dangerous lurking beneath it, something ancient and offended. "You feared Namor, King of Atlantis, would forsake his beloved for being what she has always been?" His hand found your chin, tilting your face up toward him, his expression dark with something that looked like fury—not at you, but at the world that had made you believe he could be so small.

- The moment passed, and then his lips were on yours, fierce and possessive, a declaration written in salt and fire. "You are mine," he murmured against your mouth. "Let them speak against you, if they dare. I will drown their cities in ruin before I let them lay a hand upon you." And you knew, with every inch of your soul, that he meant it.

- After that, Namor made no secret of where he stood. When leaders of the surface world spoke of mutants as a threat, they found themselves facing the cold fury of a king who had toppled empires. "Your hatred is as weak as the land you stand upon," he sneered at them, voice like a blade slicing through their feeble protests. "And just as easily shattered." His presence alone sent waves of terror through the political landscape—because an enemy of mutants was now an enemy of Atlantis.

- But beneath all the fire, beneath the war cries and the kingdom that bowed to his will, there was Namor, the man who held you like the most precious thing in the ocean’s depths. "You are of the sea now," he told you once, his voice quieter, reverent. "No one—no thing—will ever take you from me." And when you lay beside him in the deep silence of his kingdom, you knew that, for the first time, you were not alone.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- You had seen the fire in Johnny’s eyes, had traced the inferno that lived in his veins. And yet, when you told him—when you finally let the weight of your truth spill from your lips—you expected him to burn you with it. You expected the same rejection you had spent your life swallowing, expected the words that had been carved into your skin since childhood: monster, mistake, unwanted.

- But Johnny only exhaled, running a scarred hand through his hair before looking at you with something impossibly tender. "That’s what you were scared of?" He let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, before reaching for you, pulling you against him with a gentleness that contradicted the hellfire in his soul. "Sweetheart, I sold my goddamn soul to the devil. You think I got room to judge anybody?"

- And that was it. No questions, no hesitations—just love, steady and unshaken. But the world was not so kind, and Johnny saw it. Saw the way they looked at you, the way their hatred curled like poison in the air. And something dark stirred in him, something ancient and vengeful. The Rider did not abide by human morality, did not hesitate to pass judgment. And when Johnny let him loose, when the skull and chains and fire consumed him, the wicked burned.

- "You wanna know what real monsters look like?" he snarled at those who spat hatred at you. "Take a good, long look." And then the fire came, and the screams followed. The guilty never walked away the same. Some never walked away at all.

- But when the flames died, when the smoke settled, it was just Johnny again. Just the man who traced circles against your back, who kissed your knuckles like a silent vow. "Ain’t nothin’ in this world that could make me love you less," he murmured against your skin. "You hear me? Nothin’." And for once, in a world that had never made space for you, you believed it.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- You expected the worst. Eddie had always been a man of absolutes, of raw emotion barely restrained beneath the surface. And Venom? The symbiote was a creature of instinct, unpredictable and feral. You had spent days, weeks, months dreading the moment—wondering if love would turn to disgust, if loyalty would be drowned beneath the tide of prejudice you had known your whole life.

- But when the words finally left your lips, when you admitted what you were with a voice tight and brittle, Eddie just stared. Not with anger. Not with fear. Just silence, long and unreadable. And then—"That’s what had you so freaked out?" His voice was almost bored, like you had just confessed something as mundane as forgetting to lock the door. Venom slithered over his shoulder then, black tendrils shifting, its alien voice a deep, guttural purr. "WE ARE NOT AFRAID," it growled. "WE LOVE YOU."

- And that was that. Eddie never treated you differently. There were no long speeches, no reassurances—you didn’t need them. You were his. That was the only thing that mattered. But the world? The world didn’t see it that way. And Eddie, for all his temper, had never cared much for the opinions of cowards. "You wanna talk to me about monsters?" he snarled at a reporter who dared to spew anti-mutant rhetoric. "You think you know what ‘dangerous’ looks like? Let me introduce you." And then the symbiote spread its maw, teeth glinting, hunger rising. The fear in their eyes was enough.

- Venom became your guardian, your shadow, your monster in the dark. When the bigots came, they never came twice. "They are WEAK," the symbiote cooed in your ear. "THEY WILL NOT TOUCH YOU." And Eddie, for all his gruffness, only pulled you against his chest, arms solid and safe. "They gotta go through me first," he muttered. And no one—no one—was getting through him.

- But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t looking, he was just Eddie. Just a man who held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity. "You think I’m the normal one in this relationship?" he joked one night, pressing a kiss against your forehead. "Sweetheart, you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me." And maybe, just maybe, you could finally believe it.

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- You had spent your life preparing for rejection, bracing for the moment love turned to loss. You had seen kings pass judgment on your kind before—had heard their decrees of condemnation, their insistence that you were too different, too dangerous. And T’Challa—T’Challa—was a king before anything else.

- But when you finally told him, when you spoke your truth in the sanctuary of his chambers, his expression did not waver. He watched you with the patience of a man who had already known the answer, as if he had long suspected the secret you carried. "I see," he murmured, his voice like the softest roll of thunder. And then, after a long pause, he took your hands in his, his grip steady, unshaken. "You are afraid I will turn from you?" He exhaled slowly, as if the thought alone was offensive. "Beloved, you insult me."

- It was not pity in his gaze—it was understanding. Wakanda had spent centuries fighting against the world’s judgment, against the fear and greed that sought to tear it apart. He had felt the weight of being seen as other, as a threat. And so, his response was not outrage, not shock, but something far more powerful. Acceptance.

- And the world listened. When leaders spoke of mutant registration, of control, of suppression, they found their words met with the unwavering will of the Black Panther. "Wakanda will not stand with cowards," he declared, his voice carrying across the United Nations floor like the strike of a war drum. "You speak of protecting humanity, yet you wield fear as a weapon. We have seen this before. We have lived it. And we will not allow history to repeat itself."

- But when it was just the two of you, when the weight of kingship faded and it was simply T’Challa, he was nothing but gentle. He pulled you close, his lips tracing the curve of your shoulder, his voice a low, steady murmur. "You are my heart," he whispered against your skin. "And my heart does not fear."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra had always been a blade honed to perfection—silent, deadly, unforgiving. You had never known if her love was something sharp or something soft, had never been certain if you were an exception or just another inevitable loss waiting to happen. And so, when you told her, when you let your secret slip between breaths, you braced yourself for the cut.

- But Elektra did not flinch. Did not look at you with fear, or pity, or hesitation. Instead, she tilted her head, assessing you with the same cold precision she reserved for the battlefield. And then, after a long, heavy silence, she smirked. "You thought I would care?" she mused, her voice like silk over steel. "Darling, I’ve murdered kings. I’ve torn empires apart with my own hands. Do you think something as small as genetics could change how I see you?"

- After that, she became merciless with those who sought to harm you. The Hand, the government, the cowards who whispered venom against mutants—none of them were safe. When a senator proposed a bill to restrict mutant rights, he disappeared. When a crime syndicate funneled money into anti-mutant propaganda, their bodies were found in the river, their throats slit with precision. Elektra did not argue with bigots. She ended them.

- But in the quiet, when the blood was washed from her hands, she was something else. She traced the line of your jaw with a touch that was almost reverent, as if memorizing the shape of you. "They will never touch you," she promised one night, her voice a whisper against your lips. "Not while I still breathe." And you knew, with bone-deep certainty, that she meant it.

- Because Elektra’s love was not gentle. It was not tender. It was a promise carved in blood and steel. And it was yours.

Muse

- Telling Muse was like spilling ink into water—unpredictable, shifting, impossible to contain. He stared at you for a long moment, his head tilting in that unnatural way of his, as if dissecting your words, peeling them apart layer by layer. And then, he laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But with something like delight.

- "You think I would care?" he mused, his voice thick with amusement, with something almost manic. "Darling, normal is boring." He leaned closer then, his breath warm against your ear. "But you? You’re art."

- After that, the world became a canvas. The walls of Hell’s Kitchen bled with murals of your face, with paintings that whispered of something divine. He did not defend you with words—he did not care for words. Instead, he let the city see you the way he saw you. Mutant? Human? It didn’t matter. You were beautiful.

- And when someone dared to insult you, when they let their fear curl into something ugly, Muse did not argue. He simply disappeared for a night. And when he returned, there was red on his hands, on his lips, staining his teeth like war paint.

- But in the quiet, when the madness faded, he was just Muse. Just the man who traced shapes into your skin, who whispered things that made your breath catch. "You are my greatest masterpiece," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your pulse. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that he meant it.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- You told him in a whisper, in the shadowed halls of Latveria’s castle, your voice barely more than a breath. Doom had never been a man to suffer surprises, and you knew—knew—how he viewed the world. His vision was absolute, his standards uncompromising. You had braced yourself for fury, for cold dismissal, for a sharp-edged rejection that would carve itself into your bones. But when the words left your lips, Victor merely turned his head, his green cloak billowing behind him as he regarded you in silence.

- His mask gave away nothing, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was steady. "You believe Doom would be swayed by such trivialities?" There was no outrage. No scorn. Only the weight of certainty. "You are mine. That has not changed." And just like that, your fear seemed foolish. Doom had never cared for the prejudices of lesser men—why would he start now?

- But what did change was how the world suffered for its ignorance. The moment the anti-mutant hysteria reached Latveria’s borders, it was met with swift, merciless retribution. "Mutants are under my protection," he declared, standing before the United Nations, his voice like the strike of a hammer. "Those who threaten them threaten Doom. And Doom does not forgive." Countries that passed anti-mutant laws found their infrastructure failing overnight, their leaders waking to nightmares of iron gauntlets closing around their throats.

- Doom did not merely defend you—he reshaped reality itself to ensure that no hand dared rise against you again. When a coalition of world leaders tried to enforce mutant registration, their satellites fell from the sky, their wealth turned to ash. "They will learn," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, "or they will burn."

- But in the quiet, when the weight of sovereignty slipped from his shoulders, Victor held you differently. He traced the line of your jaw with ungloved hands, his voice no longer the decree of a ruler, but the murmur of a man. "You are beyond them," he told you one night, his lips ghosting over yours. "And Doom does not bow to the small-minded."

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- The moment the words left your mouth, Peter blinked, his brows furrowing like he had misheard you. "Wait—hold up. That’s what’s been eating you?" He let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, raking a hand through his hair. "Babe, I thought you were gonna tell me you had, like, a killer ex or some galactic bounty on your head."

- He took your hands then, squeezing them with the kind of reckless, unwavering devotion that only Peter Quill could offer. "I don’t care about that mutant stuff, okay? You’re you. That’s what matters." And just like that, the weight on your chest vanished. Because Peter—sweet, ridiculous, infuriating Peter—had never cared about things like labels. You were his. That was the only thing that mattered.

- But when the galaxy did care, when the whispers of mutant hatred spread beyond Earth, Peter changed. Gone was the easygoing smuggler, the charming rogue. In his place was the son of a warlord, a man who had seen entire planets fall to fear. "You wanna go after mutants?" he snarled at a Kree ambassador who dared to suggest mutant containment. "Lemme tell you something, pal—mutants don’t need protecting from people like you. You need protecting from them."

- The Guardians became your fiercest defenders. Rocket rigged explosives to anti-mutant ships, Drax openly challenged bigots to duels (none survived), and Gamora—gods, Gamora—made sure that the universe learned a very simple lesson: you do not come for what belongs to the Guardians of the Galaxy.

- But when it was just you and Peter, when the weight of the cosmos faded, he was still the same dork who danced with you in the cockpit, who pressed forehead kisses against your skin, who whispered, "You’re my favorite person in the whole galaxy." And you believed him.

Richard Rider (Nova)

- Rich had always been a man caught between two worlds—human and cosmic, soldier and survivor. You knew, deep down, that he understood what it was to be other, to be shaped by forces beyond his control. And yet, when you finally told him the truth, you still braced for the worst.

- He just stared at you. Not in shock. Not in horror. Just… processing. And then, after what felt like eternity, he exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Jesus, babe, I thought you were gonna tell me something bad." He let out a shaky laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t give a damn about that. You think being a mutant makes you different? I’ve been half-space-god since I was a teenager. You’re nothing compared to the weird crap I’ve seen."

- But when Earth made it clear that it did care, when mutants were hunted and vilified, Rich stepped up. Hard. The Nova Corps had always been neutral, but Rich? Rich was not. He tore through fleets of Sentinels, shut down space stations funding anti-mutant research, and made sure the Shi’ar never forgot what happened when they overstepped. "Mutants are under my protection," he declared, his voice carrying through the void. "Come for them, and you answer to Nova Prime."

- And when the anti-mutant rhetoric reached Earth, when humans whispered about control and containment, Rich snapped. "You people don’t get it, do you?" he spat during a live broadcast, his helmet in his hands, his blue eyes furious. "The universe is full of things that would eat you alive. And you’re wasting your time fighting mutants? Jesus Christ, you people never learn."

- But when it was just you and him, when the war was distant and the stars were quiet, he pulled you into his arms and pressed a lingering kiss against your temple. "You’re my whole damn universe," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion, with love. "And I’m never letting anything happen to you."

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billionairebratenergy · 8 days ago

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Every Detail, Always

Loki Laufeyson x Reader

Summary: For the girl who’s spent her life overlooked, he’s the one who sees everything.

Loki is not used to the quiet.

He had grown up with chaos—Asgardian politics, whispers of betrayal behind golden doors, the constant struggle to be seen. On Earth, chaos came in another form: traffic, coffee orders shouted over baristas, the strange human obsession with small talk.

But with Y/n, everything slowed down.

Until it didn’t.

Until he noticed—like he always did—that something had shifted.

“You stopped listening to your late-night playlists,” Loki said one evening, his voice barely breaking the silence between them.

Y/n looked up from her laptop, blinking at him from the couch. She’d been curled in her favorite blanket, the one with little embroidered constellations, typing half-heartedly at her thesis. “What?”

“Your music,” he clarified. “You haven’t played it in over a week.”

Her brows drew together, and he could see the moment it clicked.

“I guess I haven’t been in the mood,” she admitted, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile. “You really notice that kind of thing?”

Loki tilted his head. “Darling, you create a world with your music. I notice when that world goes quiet.”

She stared at him, stunned by the poetry in his words, and that familiar heat pooled in his chest again—the kind that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with being known.

The first time she caught him noticing, really noticing, had been over something impossibly small.

Her nail polish.

“Is that obsidian?” Loki asked, eyes narrowing as she flipped through a book at the kitchen counter. “Your polish. It’s not just black—there’s shimmer in it.”

Y/n looked down at her nails and let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. You’re right. It’s called ‘midnight magic.’ How did you know?”

He leaned in, pretending to inspect her fingers with casual interest—but his voice gave him away. “I know how your hands look when you’re wearing ‘espresso dusk.’ I liked that one. But this… this feels like armor.”

Her breath caught.

She didn’t say what it meant to her—that someone had actually paid attention without expecting something in return. That someone wasn’t trying to break her apart and analyze her, but simply… admire the way she came together.

He didn’t mean to make her cry.

It happened two weeks later, when she came home from class, the air heavy with exhaustion. She dropped her bag by the door and headed straight for the bookshelf, but stopped mid-step when she noticed what was sitting in front of it.

Her sketchbook.

Open. To the page she hadn’t touched in months.

A soft, steady voice drifted from the kitchen. “You used to draw here. Every night. I thought maybe… you forgot how beautiful your work was.”

She turned around, eyes glassy.

“Loki…”

He stepped out of the shadows with two mugs of tea, pausing when he saw her trembling.

“I wasn’t trying to push,” he said gently. “I just thought—if the reason you stopped was because you felt alone in it… you don’t have to be.”

She crossed the room in three steps and threw her arms around his neck.

He let her cry into his shoulder, hands holding her like he’d crumble if he ever let go.

Y/n had never dated someone like this before.

There were no grand declarations. No constant need to be the center of attention. Loki didn’t fight for spotlight—he thrived in corners, in observation, in presence. She’d once joked he was a ghost haunting her favorite places, but she hadn’t expected him to respond with:

“I only linger where I’m allowed.”

She hadn’t laughed. She had kissed him.

Now, months later, she realized that attention—real attention—was a kind of love language she hadn’t known she craved.

He noticed when she started journaling again and quietly replaced her empty pens with her favorite kind—.38mm gel, black ink. He noticed when her boots were hurting her and left a pair of worn-in slippers by the door. He noticed when she was fighting tears in the shower and sat outside the door, reading softly until her breathing evened out.

Not once did he ask for praise.

But gods, did he melt when she gave it.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered one night, fingers brushing his jaw as they lay in bed.

He looked at her from under heavy lids. “Why?”

“Because you know things no one else does. About me. And you never make me feel weird for it.”

Loki smiled, tired and real. “That’s because you don’t make me feel like a monster for being curious.”

Her heart cracked open in the most beautiful way.

He found her crying one morning over an old birthday card.

She looked up, embarrassed, wiping at her eyes. “It’s stupid. My dad wrote this before he passed. I forgot I had it.”

Loki knelt before her, reaching out slowly—always giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

He took the card from her hand and read the message, lips moving silently.

Then he looked up at her and said, “He called you ‘little light.’ Did you know that’s what I call you in Old Norse?”

Her breath hitched.

“I noticed,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers, “that you always carry the people you love in everything you do. I think that’s why I fell for you.”

She kissed him like he was the only real thing in her life.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he felt like maybe he was.

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sacredfixation · 2 months ago

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Touch starved god learns emotions, immediately forgets how to hold still

Loki is SO tactile. He starts off performing, still the sharp, composed version of himself he thinks he has to be. the controlled gestures, the careful posture, the way he only moves when he needs to, like he’s conserving himself. like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to be anything more.

as the series goes on he becomes looser, more expressive. Touching his chest, reaching out, grasping.

Like he’s becoming real, tangible, soft.

Loki moves like someone who wasnt allowed to take up space for so long and then suddenly, he has to. initially his hands are calculated, with deliberate little flicks.

But as he unravels as he becomes, his hands follow. His expressions soften, his face stops being a mask and starts being his. he gestures more, presses his hands to his chest when he talks, reaches out when he’s feeling something too much. like every emotion is too big to keep inside. like he’s overflowing.

Loki moves like someone who spent centuries as a shadow and is only now realizing he has a body. he gestures like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he stops. like he’s trying to prove to himself that he’s here, that he’s real.

he presses a hand to his chest when he talks, like he’s grounding himself. like he’s checking. am i still here? is this still me? he grips his own arms, his own wrists, like he has to hold himself in. like he might spill out otherwise.

his body used to be a tool: graceful, deceptive, a weapon. but now? now it’s his. awkward, shaky, hesitant. he fidgets. he trembles. he holds onto himself because he doesn’t know who else will. (cough mobius cough)

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cleo-fox · 1 year ago

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Daylight

Summary: Despite your best efforts, Sunday morning doesn’t go as planned…and you couldn’t be happier about it.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, shower sex, fingering, vaginal sex, soft sex, sex that causes you to be several hours late for work, Loki being a (respectful) horn dog.

Series: Overtime (I don't have a masterlist for this yet, but the first fic is here). A/N: This started out as a scene in Overtime that kind of took on a life of its own. You don't necessarily need to read Overtime in order to enjoy or understand this fic, but you'll have more context if you do. Anyway, it was fun revisiting these two idiots--I've got a few more ideas for them up my sleeve, so there will be more in this series at some point.

The sunlight wakes you the next morning.

It’s the same sunlight as always, but it looks different coming through Loki’s window and streaming across his bed. It looks better, you think, splashed across his sheets.

Or maybe it’s the addition of your hand clasped with his resting on those same sheets. Or perhaps it’s the sight of your clothes and his, discarded on the bedroom floor in a pool of sunlight, combined with the fact that you’re still wrapped in his arms. Maybe all of that is why it seems better.

That seems more likely.

You lie still for a moment, simply enjoying the feeling of his arms and the heat of his skin against your bare back. You are reasonably certain he’s asleep from the steady rhythm of his breath on your neck, but you’re not about to disturb the sleepy calm of the morning to confirm that.

The clock on his bedside table says it’s just after six. Before last night, you would have said that this was a reasonable time to get up—early enough to ensure that you’re in the office by eight, which would hopefully give you enough time to meet this evening’s deadline, but not so early that it makes you question your life and your choices.

But that was before. Now…well. You suddenly find that your priorities look very different from the comfort of Loki’s bed.

You decide that you didn’t really see the clock. Neither one of you thought to set an alarm last night. Sleeping in was inevitable. That’s not your fault. No harm, no foul.

You close your eyes and allow yourself to fall into a light doze, warmed by the sunlight and Loki’s embrace.

Sometime later, you’re woken by the soft brush of a kiss against your neck.

“Did you sleep well?” he murmurs against your neck.

“Yes, though I did have a bit of a late night,” you say. “Someone kept me up.”

“Really? That was rude of him.”

“Very.”

He’s noticeably—achingly—hard. His lips brush against your neck again. “Perhaps he might make it up to you?”

Your intention is to open your eyes, roll over, and allow yourself to be ravished. But in a development you can only describe as tragic, you happen to catch sight of the clock on his nightstand.

7:38 am.

“Shit,” you say. “It’s almost eight.”

Loki is predictably unconcerned about this. “We don’t have any official hours to keep,” he says, his hand skimming along your ribs and down the curve of your waist. “We have all day.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got a ton more to do,” you say, trying to ignore how good he is at kissing your neck or how his hand is drifting down your hip toward the aching pulse between your legs. “We really need every minute.”

“That is true,” he says solemnly. “Perhaps we ought shower together to save time.”

You can’t help but smile. “I kind of feel like you have another agenda.”

“I’d never,” he says.

“The raging hard on pressing against my ass would suggest otherwise.”

You can almost hear him smirk as he gives his hips a teasing little thrust against you. “I contain multitudes.”

You wiggle out of his embrace and slip out of bed. You intend to look back and give him a coquettish look and say something sharp and teasing, but instead, the sight of him takes your breath away. He leans back on his elbows, looking everything like the sort of lounging god you would see depicted in marble at the Parthenon, all chiseled, sharp muscles and clean lines. His cock stands fully erect and deliciously thick, flushed with wanting.

“I can’t help but notice that you didn’t reject the offer,” he says, seemingly fully aware of the path of your gaze. His hand drops to his cock and he strokes himself casually, which very nearly sends your sprinting back to bed.

“You’re right,” you say, trying to keep your cool as you throw him your most beguiling look. “So you should probably hurry up.”

You turn and start walking toward the master bathroom. You don’t need to look over your shoulder to know he’s following you, his gaze hungrily devouring every inch of skin, eyes dark with purpose.

You walk into the master bathroom and are immediately confronted by several flagrant violations of the residential handbook. The TVA is many things, but it is not the sort of place that deviates from set floor plans, nor is it the sort of place that deviates from those plans to install a rainfall shower and soaking tub—in marble, no less.

You think of the stark, vaguely institutional aesthetic in your own master bath and you can’t decide if you’re annoyed at his rule breaking or jealous that he could get away with it.

“I’m not even going to ask if you got approval for this setup because I know you didn’t,” you say as you reach in to the shower to turn on the tap.

“Do you think of anything other than that cursed personnel manual?” he asks as he comes up behind you, his arms snaking around your waist and his lips again finding your neck as he draws you to him.

“First of all, it’s not the personnel manual, it’s the residential handbook, which you specifically agreed to abide by when you signed off on your lease.”

He turns you around so you face him and draws you close, a wicked gleam in his eye, “Oh, I’m going to make you forget all about those ridiculous rules.”

“That’s a pretty tall order—oh.”

His hand is slipping between your legs, stroking your already slick folds.

“I think I’m quite capable of inspiring other passions,” he says, rolling his fingers in a broad circle over the hood of your clit

You loop your arms around his shoulders. You can already feel your knees starting to tremble, but you know he won’t let you fall.

“Bold claim,” you say, “I’m going to need more evidence.”

“Oh, you’re going to get a lot of evidence,” he says softly. He curls a finger inside of you, pressing his thumb against the hood of your clit. “You will have no doubts by the time I’m done presenting my argument. You will be weak-kneed with evidence.”

You shudder as he rocks his hand slowly. He’s touching you enough to stoke the flames of desire, making your hips rock helplessly toward his hand as you try to create that extra friction and pressure that you know will send you flying over the edge. But Loki is meticulous—perhaps even ruthless—about not giving in.

“Not yet,” he murmurs softly when your latest attempt is thwarted. “Slowly.”

Your pleas become louder and more frequent, but his answer remains the same: slowly. You whimper and beg, but he is resolute.

Steam has fogged up the mirrors and is curling around you when your orgasm finally begins to crest. You suddenly find yourself grateful for his pacing as the intensity builds to a level that makes your knees shake.

“That’s it,” he breathes as you tremble in his arms. “You can come for me now, lovely.”

Like magic, the coil inside you snaps at his command and you cry out as your cunt shudders around his slowly thrusting fingers. Your arms looped around his shoulders are the only thing keeping you standing.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss against your temple as you sag against him. “Beautiful.”

He gives you a moment to get your bearings before leading you into the shower. He sits down on the marble bench, spreading his thighs wide and pulling you into his lap so you straddle his hips. The spray of the water hits your back as he kisses you again, slow and hungry.

You love everything about this. The heat of the water on your back. The closeness. The way his thighs are spread wide. How his cock presses against your bare cunt. The noise he makes low in his throat when you start rubbing yourself against him.

“Need you,” he mumbles against your neck. His hands squeeze your hips and you reach between the two of you to line his cock up at your entrance.

It occurs to you that you could take the opportunity to tease him, to make him beg for you, but pretending that you have any control over your aching need for him is several degrees beyond impossible. So instead, you slowly ease yourself down onto his cock while he groans against your neck, dragging his lips down to the curve of your shoulder.

The feeling of him inside you is still so new that it feels just a little unreal. After all that wanting and yearning and thinking that he was too handsome, too divine, too out of reach to have, he’s suddenly yours and it’s absolutely dizzying.

You pause for a moment, eyes closed, savoring the feeling of unyielding fullness, of connection. Of him.

“All right?” he asks softly.

You open your eyes and his look of sweet concern makes your heart swell. “Yeah,” you say, a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. “I just—I needed a moment. You feel—” You pause for a moment, searching for the right words, sifting through the effusive and flowery and the things that are true but too early to say. “You just feel really good,” you say.

It sounds wildly inadequate, but he seems to understand, to hear all of the unsaid parts that you’re keeping close to your heart. He could turn away, say it’s too much too soon, that you haven’t even said what you are yet, much less committed to anything serious, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward, drawing you into a slow kiss, his hands framing your face, tracing the curve of your cheek and jaw with the kind of reverence that makes you want to say everything you feel.

“You’re perfect.” He says it in between breaths, with such a disarming sincerity that you can’t bring yourself to try and deflect, to name a flaw or even make a joke.

Later, he will tell you that he was struggling with a similar battle, trying to reconcile how new this was with the depth of feeling that was already blossoming in his chest. He will tell you later that he couldn’t believe you were his, just as you couldn’t believe he was yours, that there was something about you that felt right in a way that made him feel like he knew even then.

But right now, he simply kisses you with a fervor that makes your toes curl and your hips start to move.

It’s only the second time that you’ve done this, but there’s a strange blend of both the new and the familiar. The shape and feel of his body pressed against yours is new, but the way that he moves, the way that he touches you is as though he’s loved you for centuries.

The rhythm you fall into is slow, despite the excuse that this shower was to save time. His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit to add another layer of bliss to the feeling of his cock inside you. Despite your slow pace, your ascent rushes in fast and brilliant as a comet blazing through the night sky. Your back arches, almost as though you’re presenting yourself as an offering to him as you come undone in his arms. Loki watches you with a kind of breathless wonder, brow furrowing in pleasure, his lower lip caught between his teeth at the tight clench of your cunt around his cock.

Your legs are rubbery with pleasure, but you keep going because you need his release as much as your own. You need to feel him empty himself inside of you, to hear the low groan he makes as he unravels, to see the way his eyes flutter shut. You want crescent moon marks on your hips from where his hands gripped you too tightly in that final ascent, physical proof that you can make not just a god forget himself, but Loki specifically. Loki with all his masks and tricks and artful poise; Loki laid bare below you, free from all artifice and glibness, raw and real and just as he is. All the parts of him that make you think that down this path lies something wonderful (not that you’re ready to call it love. Yet).

But Loki is nothing if not predictably unpredictable and he seems determined to make you work before granting you that little glimpse at the heaven that is the god of mischief coming undone beneath you.

“Let me feel you come again,” he murmurs as soon as you catch your breath.

“Is once not enough?” you say, trying and failing to sound cool and calm, like you’re not completely wrecked for him.

“Hardly.” His eyes flash in a way that makes you shiver as he urges your hips into a faster rhythm. “I am not so easily satisfied when my need has been so great.”

You can feel the coil in your hips beginning to tighten again.

“I’ve burned for you for years, my love,” he says, his voice going a little shaky. “Would you deny water to a man dying of thirst?”

You shake your head, your words lost to the oncoming wave of your undoing.

“Then do not deny me your pleasure, I am desperate for you.” He’s panting, barely holding on to his composure. “Now come for me again, let me feel you.”

You are so far gone that it only takes a few more strokes to make you come undone and the first shudder of your climax takes Loki with you.

You savor his pleasure more than your own release, memorizing the sound he makes, the way his lips form a silent plea in the shape of your name until he slides a hand up your neck and pulls you down to kiss him.

His kiss is fierce and hungry at first, but it ebbs to something slower and sweeter as he empties himself into you. He sighs as you tangle your fingers in the wet tendrils of his hair.

It’s a long moment later when you finally break the kiss, resting your forehead against his.

“I don’t think we saved any time,” you say.

He doesn’t even open his eyes. “I cannot overemphasize how much I do not care about being late in these circumstances.”

You grin. “Not even a little?”

He kisses you sweetly on the mouth before opening his eyes, his lips curling into a slow and satisfied smile. “I would be late every day for the rest of my life for just a few seconds of that.”

His words spark something warm in your chest and you try to hide it with a wry look. “I’m not sure that you’re getting the better end of the deal.”

He kisses you softly. “You don’t know how good you feel.”

“You’re one to talk,” you murmur against his lips and he smiles as he deepens the kiss.

The warmth of his body pressed against yours and the feeling of him smiling as he kisses you is a kind of luxury you’ve never imagined. It takes you a while to untangle yourselves, but you can’t find it in yourself to move any faster.

The actual showering part of your shower is slow and unhurried and you find that Loki’s hands are equally gifted at these mundane tasks. His fingers have a knack for finding every stubborn knot in your neck and shoulders, which he explores leisurely under the pretext of washing your back. The press of his fingers unwinds the tension in your shoulders, loosening up muscles that have been too tense for too long.

“You are way too good at this,” you say.

“Just one of my many talents,” he says, dropping a kiss on your shoulder. “Though perhaps I ought to stop—I wouldn’t want to make you late.”

“I’m so relaxed I’m going to ignore that little bit of sass.”

He chuckles against your shoulder. “You’ll forgive me.”

“We’ll see.”

The sweet, almost chaste kisses he’s been pressing against your neck and shoulders are gradually growing slower, more insistent. When you feel the tip of his tongue draw a quick, teasing line on your neck, you know that you might be in trouble.

His hands slide to your waist, drawing you close enough that you can feel that he’s hard again.

“I’m sensing some ulterior motives,” you say.

“A bold accusation,” he mumbles against your neck, pressing himself more firmly against you.

“We can’t have sex again,” you laugh.

“Mmm, we could,” he says in between kisses. “There’s nothing stopping us from having sex again.”

“We are already running late—”

“I thought I was very clear about my feelings on timeliness in these circumstances.” He nips at your earlobe and you shiver. “And would you really deprive me of the utter bliss of coming undone inside you?”

“It’s more like rescheduling than depriving you of anything.”

“I’ve waited so long, darling.”

“We just had sex like…less than an hour ago,” you say through a laugh.

“Ah, but the days before that were so terribly long,” he says.

You turn to face him, thinking this will make things easier for you. This turns out to be a grave miscalculation because now you have to contend with the fire in his eyes and the twin flame that it summons low in your hips.

Fuck.

You are definitely going to have sex again.

His eyes glitter like he knows and he slowly walks you backwards until you’re pressed between him and the shower wall.

“You are absolutely incorrigible,” you say as he peppers your neck with slow, decadent kisses. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“Funnily enough, I don’t think you’ll be complaining about my mouth in about thirty seconds.”

And with a wicked and hungry grin, he slowly sinks to his knees.

It’s 10:48am when you finally walk into the office.

Even though you are now several hours later than you intended and the stack of files is no less imposing, you feel nothing but a pleasant glow of happiness as you take your seat. Loki sits down in the chair next to you and this time, he sneaks his foot underneath your desk and hooks his ankle under yours.

He catches your eye and smiles. “I can be a little more obvious now.”

You put on your most exaggerated expression of mock seriousness. “Only a little. This is a workplace, after all.”

He adopts a similar expression and nods. “Of course. I imagine there will be paperwork as well.”

“There actually is a form we’ll need to file with HR,” you say.

Loki frowns. “Wait, you’re not being serious about that, are you?”

“Yep. We’ll need to file it by next Friday.”

He sighs and throws his hands up in the air. “Is there anything that this place hasn’t managed to weigh down with the burden of unnecessary bureaucracy?”

“I see we’re in a good mood this morning.” Mobius has arrived, cup of coffee in hand. He nods at Loki and looks at you. “How long has he been raging against the machine?”

“Not terribly long,” you say as Loki rolls his eyes.

“It’s not raging against anything,” he says. “I just fail to see the point of some of this organization’s operational practices.”

Mobius raises an eyebrow at you. “You told him he has to fill out a form, huh?”

“Got it in one,” you say as Loki scowls.

Mobius chuckles and takes a sip of coffee. “You should hear him during performance evaluation season. I get entire monologues. It’s like Hamlet meets HR.”

Loki’s scowl deepens and you have to bite the inside of your cheek in order not to laugh.

“It looks like you made good progress, though,” says Mobius, looking at your completed stacks of files. “I took a look at what you pulled earlier this morning and there’s some good stuff.”

“Oh, good,” you say, hoping he doesn’t think much of the fact that neither one of you was in the office earlier this morning. “What time do you think you’ll need the rest done?”

“Right, about that,” says Mobius. You steel yourself for bad news. “I took a look at what you pulled so far and I think I’ve got what I need.”

You blink at him. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, you’re off the hook,” he says. “Go enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

You look at Loki, who looks just as pleasantly surprised as you feel.

“In fact, you can take the rest of the week off,” says Mobius. “Triple overtime, right? You earned the time.”

“This feels like a trick,” says Loki. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” says Mobius. “You did good work.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “However—”

“And there’s the catch,” says Loki.

“There’s no catch,” says Mobius. He gestures at you with his coffee cup. “I’m just going to need you both to turn in the relevant paperwork to HR by next Friday.”

Loki sighs, though you can tell he’s fighting a smile. “There’s absolutely no privacy here.”

Mobius raises his eyebrows. “You’re playing footsie under the desk. It’s not exactly rocket science.”

You look at Loki and shrug. “He’s got a point.”

“You’re taking his side?”

You roll your eyes and stand up. “Well, you can sulk about it if you’d like, but I’m going to go enjoy the rest of my weekend.” You share a sly, secret smile with Mobius. “I’ll see you next week, Mobius.”

It takes Loki approximately twenty seconds to catch up with you.

“And you say I’m incorrigible,” he says as he falls into step beside you.

You smile at him. “I think you’ll get over it.”

“I’ll consider it.” He catches your band, fingers twining with yours. “What are your plans for the rest of the week?”

“Hadn’t decided,” you say, biting back a smile. “Did you have any suggestions?”

“Well, I’d like to start by going back to bed.”

“To sleep?” you tease.

“Eventually.” He licks his lips. “And since our respective schedules have been cleared for the week, we’ll be able to take our time.”

The hunger in his eyes is still so new and intoxicating that you can’t help the shiver that works its way up your spine.

You give him a slow smile. “Lead the way.”

#loki smut #loki x reader smut #loki x reader #loki laufeyson smut #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #tva loki x reader #overtime series

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withmyloveasyourgarden · 1 month ago

Text

ALL I EVER DO IS BURN UP FOR YOU

LOKI LAUFEYSON X F!READER

A mishap on a mission, rivals that don't hate each other as much as they pretend to, and a well meaning visit to the god of mischief's door that brings about something you never expected. [18+. Sex pollen/aphrodisiac fic. 6.2K. Re-uploaded from my old blog.]

It starts with an argument.

With you and him hissing insults and bickering like children over who's more suited for such a high stakes mission. With your hands itching to bury deep into ink spilled curls, if only to yank his face back from where it's obnoxiously tilted close to yours and watch those mocking, glacial eyes widen in shock.

You had put the work in, assembled all the information and hunted relentlessly for the location of the weapons lab only for him to sweep in at the last moment and use mortality against you. It's an excuse that strikes a dangerous match in your blood, heats your skin to an unhealthy temperature whilst your eyes narrow to vicious slits.

"You mortals are frail and weak, too easily breakable. I'm obviously a much better choice, what could their feeble minds possibly create that will harm a god."

It makes you nearly scream that the others vote in his favour. Rage, ugly and knotted, sticking in your chest at the insinuation you should be seen as fragile when you've fought for years among advanced tech suits, super soldiers, master assassins and an indefinitely more likeable god.

You're not proud of the way it burns at you, that it plucks at some pitiful insecure string you've tried to bury by pushing yourself harder, always harder.

He's made you feel like you're not good enough to be here despite all you've done and it gathers petty venom on your tongue faster than you can blink.

"Don't come crying to me when you fuck up, I'll be here waiting to laugh in your face when the shit they're packing knocks you of your pedestal."

The words are sharp and scathing, spat over your shoulder before you're storming out and leaving everyone to stare after you.

You miss the arrogant smirk falter on his lips the moment you're gone.

Guilt comes to you swiftly.

You didn't really mean what you said, you hope he succeeds, people's lives count on it and deep down you even hope that he's right and in no real danger.

It's not like you to lose your temper and be so petulant. It really isn't.

It's just Loki.

He's rubbed you the wrong way from the moment you met. His arrogance, his patronising drawl and insatiable need to get under your skin, bringing something immature and half feral out of you without fail.

Before him you didn't know what it was like to hate someone, to have someone manipulate every nerve you have with lithe fingers until there's flames in your blood and violence in your eyes.

It irritates you more that he's so fucking pretty, that his body looks like it's been carved from marble in an artist's quest for divine perfection, and that you'd been attracted to him almost immediately until he'd opened that poisoned mouth of his.

And unfortunately there's still moments where it snags at you like hooks in your skin, where it feels like you could give in to the temptation to claw and sink your teeth into him as he pounds you so fucking hard you see galaxies.

You feel it when he's pressed, hard and unforgiving, against the soft give of your body. When you've managed to incense him to the point he's prowled towards you, anger cracking in his eyes like chipped shards of ice, until your back has hit a solid surface for him to crowd you up against.

It's then that the energy between you snaps raw - hits it's most volatile like it's gathering itself to an explosive peak. You both linger in it, let the moment seep thick in the heat until it edges along the line of pain.

But then someone always eventually draws away and you wonder if there's a dark pit, a chasm of unknown want, in his stomach like there is in yours whenever you do.

When Natasha appears at your door the first thing you think is that she's come to talk about before. You know she sees more than most people and she's always sneaking subtle questions into your conversations about the God of mischief.

The second thing you think is that the universe must fucking hate you and your previous guilt had obviously not been enough to make up for your behaviour.

"You're needed in the lab, they need what you know on the bio weapons made in that place - Loki's been hit with something."

"Hit with what?"

"He said it was some kind of dart."

"Did he say what the liquid looked like? Was it blue or purple?"

"Blue I think, why?"

Shit.

"Good news, he's not going to die a horrific, agonising death from his systems shutting down one by one."

"And the bad news?" Thor grimaces, his brow heavy with concern and thick arms folded over his chest as he peers at you.

"He could possibly die of… something else." You wince, feeling the awkwardness of embarrassment flooding your tongue. "The thing he's been injected with is an aphrodisiac, a really fucking strong one, they basically manipulated it to cause as much pain and discomfort as they could to make victims more pliant to what they wanted."

Thor stares at you for a long moment, face blank whilst you watch him working over the information you've given him, then suddenly he blinks, once, twice.

"You're saying Loki needs to fuck someone or he'll die?"

"Possibly, I'm not– I'm not one hundred percent sure, okay." You sigh. "That's what happened when someone human was injected, your brother is a god. The effects could be different– milder maybe."

"So there's a chance he could be fine?"

"Yeah but I'm not a scientist or a doctor, he should really get… checked...out. Wait– Thor, where the hell is he?"

You hadn't even had a chance until now to notice the presence of a huffy, irate raven haired god was missing from the situation.

His brother had practically snatched you up as you'd ran towards the lab, his face panicked as he'd word vomited a thousand and one questions about the drug, its effects and the danger it posed to Loki.

But as you peer around the suddenly quiet god of thunder now, there is definitely a rather worrying absence - the lab empty besides the doctor.

"Oh, he's in his room." Thor confesses awkwardly, one of his large hands scratching at the the back of his neck whilst he offers you a sheepish smile. "I tried to bring him here but he was somewhat violently against it, he threatened to stab me again."

You snort.

Of course he did, the overgrown fucking child.

Trust Loki to be injected with a lethal substance and rather than be monitored for potential risks to his health he'd prefer to pout in his room.

"Thor, someone needs to go there and bring him down - this is serious."

He grins then, charming and radiant, and god help you because you know it's coming, both of you fully aware of the soft spot you have for your blonde Asgardian friend and the fact you can't say no when he asks you for something so politely.

"I think my presence will do nothing more than irritate him further." He says, soft ocean blue eyes pleading at you. "Maybe you can go and try and lure him out? He's always more easily persuaded when it comes to you."

Highly fucking doubt it, you want to scoff at him. If anything the mere sight of you is enough to set Loki off on a tangent.

But he's staring at you all hopeful and sweet and there's nothing you can do but curse these two gods that have clearly been sent to be twin pains in your life.

"Fine." You grit instead.

You're not sure how long you pace outside the door before he calls to you.

Long enough that he berates you for trying to wear a hole through the floor, his voice dripping in amusement and a tinge of something rough that your mind doesn't register until it's too late.

He's the epitome of composure when you slip inside his room, causing you to frown as you narrow your eyes and scan the length of his body.

He's still in full leathers, his legs stretched across his bed and ankles locked whilst he leans back regally against the headboard.

There's something you can't put your finger on though, something not right about how he looks, not even a hair out of place or a scratch on his leathers to say he'd just returned from a mission.

It's almost too perfect.

"Come to laugh in my face, have you darling?" He drawls, smirking when your eyes snap to his face. "It's a shame then I must tell you I'm perfectly fine."

"They told me you'd been injected with something." You say quietly, gaze still searching for something out of place whilst you edge closer.

"Ah and you thought you'd come and witness my suffering did you? Thought you'd see a god brought to his knees by some mortal drug? Apologies for the disappointment."

You shake your head and stare at him in disbelief. "Loki no." You argue softly. "I came to bring you to the lab, the drug you've been injected with could seriously harm you, you need to be tested and kept under observation."

He scoffs, a petulant thing as he rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. "I take it my brother sent you in hopes a pretty face would sway me. I will tell you like I told him, I am fine, I have no need of your doctors."

His voice tries for nonchalance, arrogance even, but there's an underlying coldness you detect that seems unwarranted and leaves you feeling frustrated.

"Why are you being so unreasonably stubborn." You grit, your hands curling to fists on top of your hips whilst you stride towards the bed and glower down at him. "We're only trying to help you, how about you try being grateful."

"Why are you being so irritatingly stupid." He spits back. Long legs swing gracefully off the bed and land either side of yours, the blue of his eyes pulsing dark as his lips pull back and bare teeth. "I do not need your help, I do not need some silly little midgardian doctors poking and prodding at me whilst I'm expected to just lie there vulnerable."

Oh.

Oh fuck, you have been stupid.

Shortly after the arrival of his brother, Thor had filled you all in on some Loki's history. Told you quietly, guiltily, that whilst he wasn't completely innocent of the deeds he'd committed, they hadn't been entirely his doing either.

It had been enough to make you shudder, for sympathy to bloom in your heart despite everything, at the thought of the kind of torture that would have to be inflicted upon a god to make him crumble to another's will.

Of course he would be wary of someone wanting to draw bloods and hook him to machines and do any other tests they had in mind. Of course it would bring back terrible memories for him. You feel wretched for not understanding sooner, your eyes softening and the frustration bleeding from your body quicker than it had arrived.

"No one is going to hurt you Loki." You murmur gently, letting his gaze narrow to suspicious slits as he searches your words and face for the barest hint of a lie. "We just want to make sure you're okay, that's all, I promise."

His eyes widen for a moment, expression faltering to something raw and unguarded whilst he stares up at you and your fingers twitch with urge to run themselves along his jaw, over his cheek and through the soft looking curls of his hair in some surprising need to offer comfort.

But then he shutters. His expression turns mischievous and haughty and you can practically sense the sarcastic quip of his tongue before he's even opening his mouth.

"Worried about me, are you darling?" He arches a dark brow, lips quirking into a smug grin. "I must confess I like seeing you all bothered about me like this."

You go to tell him to fuck off, go to spin on your heel and march down to the lab and declare that he's absolutely fine, just peachy, his usual rage inducing self.

But then your eyes flick up on a whim and see the sweat beading along his hairline, dampening the finer hairs and slicking them to his skin.

That isn't right.

You've seen this man fight, witnessed him slice through countless enemies without so much as a stilted huff of breath let alone physically breaking a sweat. It's something he practically prides himself on, ridiculing you for looking like a dishevelled mess whenever you emerge from battle after him.

The next move you make is on reflex, a common habit that you resort to without thought.

You lift the palm of your hand to his forehead to check his temperature, your skin already grazing his before you register his panicked ‘stop–don't!’ and your mind is only capable of offering one thought before the world is suddenly swept out from beneath your feet.

The typically cold skinned god is blisteringly hot.

Loki snarls the second your hand makes full contact and there's a sudden pulse of energy that ripples through the air, stealing your breath and tingling along your skin. You don't realise what it is until he's grabbed you and caged you beneath him.

Magic. More specifically, an illusion.

He's definitely not fine.

He's panting and shaking, his arms trembling whilst he hovers over you, face shiny with sweat and cheeks flushed fever pink. When he peers down at you, you inhale sharply, the blue of his eyes has all but gone - swallowed whole by the hungry expanse of his pupils.

"Loki." You whisper and a violent shudder racks his already taut body, the movement dragging your eyes lower before they snap back to his face as you let out a startled squeak.

His illusion had hid more than you'd been able to realise before he'd tossed you on the bed and now the image of him half naked, in nothing but unlaced leather pants that are doing a poor job of concealing the large outline of his cock, is burned into your brain - even as you close your eyes and take a deep breath to try and calm your racing heart.

Your squeak seems to snap him out of the lustful haze he's in however, a shocked slash of clarity in his eyes when yours flicker back open and pain streaking across his face like it hurts him to drag himself from your body when he pushes away and rocks back on his heels.

"I'm sorry– fuck– I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to." He gasps and he looks so genuinely distraught that you almost reach for him again, only snatching your hand back when his eyes dart to it's approach and he flinches.

"It's alright Loki, I'm okay." You soothe, concerned. "I want to help you if you'll let me, just tell me how."

He laughs then, something croaked and hollow, and removes the heels of his palms from his eyes to stare you down in a way that is mildly flustering.

"You shouldn't ask me that." He husks. "The things I want - if you knew - you wouldn't ask me that."

Well fuck. You hadn't meant it like that, you'd been thinking along the lines of taking him for medical help or running to get his brother.

But now-

There's something about the way he says it, the way he looks saying it, the heat that slips back into his eyes as he mentions wanting, that makes you very much need to know.

It makes your stomach twist in an intense way, a wicked pang of heat spearing through your belly, the beginnings of a fierce craving, and the words are out of your mouth before you can shove your hand against your lips to stop them.

"Tell me what you want, I’ll do it."

He glares at you then, twin shocks of piercing blue glowing from beneath the sweat-damp of his curling hair, nostrils flaring as if you're truly testing the limits of his patience. His head has dipped low, long fingers twisting themselves in the strewn bed sheets in an effort to ground himself as another cruel tremor sweeps through him.

"What I want." He seethes after it recedes, tossing his head back to pin you with a furious look. "I will not take from you, not like this."

"Why not?" You push yourself up, confused, and he hastily shifts back, keeping a safe distance between you whilst anger and frustration crawls across his face.

"Because when I take you I want it to be because you want it." He snarls. "Not because of some warped sense of duty or self sacrifice that you and the rest of your idiotic team consider heroic."

It's endearing, if not more than a little insulting.

You're heart beats a little faster at the fact he's thought about fucking you, fluttering wildly behind your ribs because he seems to want you just as much as you want him.

But the insinuation you'd only be with him because it's your job to save people brings a type of rage thrumming through your blood that only Loki has ever been capable of summoning.

"You think I'd fuck you just because it might save your life? That I'd offer myself to you so intimately just so I could get for a fucking pat on the back for helping you?" You spit, offended. "I thought gods were supposed to be smart, or is it just you that is this extraordinarily stupid."

The situation feels familiar now, the two of you forgetting everything to return to spewing insults and barbs at each other because neither of you know how to deal with the sticky truth, the undeniable hope that the other one might feel the same.

And for a moment it works.

It distracts Loki from his pain, from his reluctance to be close to you, touching you, and in one swift move, he lunges. Knocks you back against the mattress and buries you beneath the weight of his powerful body.

"Careful with that mouth, darling." He taunts, dragging his nose across the curve of your cheek before savage eyes lock on yours. "Or I might be tempted to find something other than your poisonous words to fill it.

You don't rise to his baiting like you typically would, don't hiss and claw at him like a scorned cat because he's too close and his touch is an wholly unwanted offence on your skin.

Instead you do something infinitely worse.

You shock him.

You say his name, soft as silk, legs parting to make room for him to sink against you and his eyes blow wide - stunned like he can't quite believe you're real and inviting him to cover you entirely, to wrap himself around you like ivy, without an ounce of disgust.

"That's what I want."

He groans ragged like you've wounded him, like you've shoved your hand through his chest and yanked at something vital.

His hips lurch up subconsciously against yours and oh, it's enough to make your mouth run dry. The quick glimpse of him you'd had is nothing compared to the feel of him pushing against you.

It makes the tension bloat, electricity crackling upon your skin and you don't know how he isn't half mad with the drug when you feel like you could combust just from this alone.

He makes a rough, desperate sound in the back of his throat when you wrap your legs around him, eyes burning pitch black and starved as he trails his nose along the side of your face and growls.

"Darling��perfect little thing– tell me to stop. I can't– tell me this isn't what you really want."

You remove your hands from their bone knuckled grip on his arms, cradling the sharp lines of his jaw and pulling him down to where his lips just ghost over your own.

"I want you, Loki." You murmur. "Let me make it better, let me give you what you need."

He snaps then, lunges forward and claims your mouth in a punishing kiss, drinking you in so deep that you can barely breathe but you'll gladly suffocate before you even think of asking him to ease up.

You've never been kissed like this before, with such brutal demand and unyielding need that you could split apart at the seams from the raw heat of it all.

You tangle your hands something fierce into the silken depths of his hair, give a sharp tug when he scores the pillow of your lip with his teeth before drawing the tender flesh into his mouth like he wants nothing more than to mark you everywhere and with every part of him.

The pull of his hair draws an inhuman snarl from his chest and his hands turn to steel upon your thighs, fingers sinking in deep and wrenching your legs apart so his hips can slam against your cunt.

"Loki." You gasp, his name turning to a choked moan on your tongue as he licks and bites at your throat, teeth bared against the flushed skin in a terribly smug grin that you cannot bring yourself to huff about.

"That's it pet - say my name - let me hear how good I make you feel." He purrs.

You push at him then, push for control and to take advantage of his distraction so you can flip him on his back and fuck, he looks almost criminally good beneath you. Eyes startled, his lips parted in shock before they spread into a sharp, feral grin.

It's impossible to resist falling back into him, sweeping your tongue into his mouth when he catches you against his chest and swallowing the moans that pour from his lips to yours whilst you circle your hips relentlessly over the thick of him.

He likes constantly being touched, you've realised, craves it, yields to it, a soft note of disappointment always slipping through his gritted teeth when you remove any part of yourself.

So you touch him everywhere.

Your hips remain fused to his and your hands never cease roaming, scratching and tracing every ridge and dip of his body whilst you kiss, nip and lick at him until he's a whimpering mess beneath you.

You slip down the length of his body when it seems like he'll fracture if you take your time with him any longer, gentle hands peeling the leather of his trousers back and down, releasing his cock and wrapping your fingers around the thick weight.

He hisses at the contact, body going rigid and jackknifing from the bed as your thumb grazes up over the leaking head and you begin to stroke him. He croaks out your name like it's a plea to the heavens, his breath falling to ragged pants when you drag your tongue across the slit of his cock before sinking your mouth down onto his length.

"Fuck." He snarls.

You waste no time teasing him, swallowing him deep into your throat and sucking hard, tongue sliding over the thick vein running underneath as he throbs and his hips stammer against your face.

There's words, curses you think, in a language you don't understand falling rapidly from his lips and when your eyes flick up to him his are screwed shut, his head thrown back against the pillows, neck beautifully bared and his fingers wound so tight in the bedsheets it's only a matter of time before you hear them shred.

His eyes snap open to stare at you when you hum in approval around him, his lips parting and a hand shooting out to tangle in your hair. He looks wrecked and it does something indescribable to your chest, your pride, when he chokes.

"Please."

You hum around him again and he loses his composure entirely, fisting your hair tight and rocking his hips hard and fast into the welcoming heat of your mouth. You gag slightly at the assault on your throat, thighs clenching as he hisses through his teeth at the feel of it.

You were dripping just watching him like this, every nerve alight and desperate for his touch, thighs shifting again for some kind of friction and this time, Loki notices.

"You like this don't you, pet?" He grunts. "Fuck, I can smell you - needy little thing - let me help."

From the corner of your eye you catch a faint glow of green and then you jolt. Lashes fluttering as you moan, helplessly overwhelmed, around his cock.

There's a pressure, some kind of energy, swirling at your cunt, the feeling of tight circles being rapidly drawn over your swollen clit driving you mad, as if he's actually dipped his own fingers inside your pants and was skillfully touching you to ruin.

It's so much. His cock driving into your mouth whilst his magic thrums relentlessly against you. Your eyes roll back when he slows this thrusts, matching his pace to that of the phantom fingers plunging inside your walls.

"That's it, darling." He praises breathlessly when you whine around him, eyes never leaving your face. "Want to feel you cum just like this. Taking both my cock and my seidr so well, fucking filthy little thing."

His words strike a match that ignites something cataclysmic in your gut and you're done for. Your orgasm is cresting without hesitance, barreling towards you unapologetically fast until the muscles of your belly clench tight, the intensity making your head spin until your shuddering and moaning around his cock.

It tears a sound you've never heard in your life from Loki, something raw and wounded and so utterly blissed out shoves it's way out of his throat and then his fingers are curling almost painfully tight, yanking you down to the base of his cock as he pulses and spills hot on your tongue.

You swallow him down the best you can before his hands are clawing at your arms, hauling you up to his chest so he can bring his frenzied mouth to yours whilst he trembles.

"More." He bites out.

Pleasure makes him burn possessive.

It makes him roll you over and crush you with him, cage you with his body as his teeth carve marks into your skin and usually talented hands rip clumsily at your pants.

You choke on a half shriek, half moan as he stuffs you full of his fingers - spears you open and strokes you to madness, his voice a dark, lustful whisper snaking in your ear.

"So fucking tight, darling girl - bet that sweet little cunt looks so pretty stretched out on my fingers - be a good girl and cum for me again - cum for me and I'll give you my cock."

God yes, you need it. You'll go fucking insane if you don't.

You think he will break you just like this, that he’ll pull another lightening sharp orgasm from you with his fingers alone, but then he's suddenly drawing them from your slick warmth. Ignoring your frustrated whine to shred the clothes from your body as if they are nothing more than paper and pressing the broad width of his shoulders between your thighs.

He shoves his face into your cunt before you can fully recover from what the sight of him between your legs does to your ego, drives his tongue through the evidence of your previous release and swallows it down with a gut wrenching moan of satisfaction.

It is both worshipful and humbling.

He lays himself at your mercy like you are divine only to remind you that he can have you pleading and praying with a mere flick of his tongue. His fingers curling back into you whilst he seals his lips around your throbbing clit and sucks, making you buck wildly into his grinning mouth as you cry out and rake your nails across his scalp in a way that has him shuddering.

It's rabid and feral the way he eats at you, tongue swirling wet and messy over your clit and his fingers twisting to reach a spot that has your body caving in on itself.

He thrusts knuckle deep until you're wailing. Hiccuping his name as the orgasm builds in your belly with terrifying velocity and then he's nipping at you just a little bit sharply with his teeth, offering that hint of pain that makes the pleasure burn darker, wilder, than it ever has before.

You arch from the bed with a breathless, wounded sound, unable to scream, unravelling magnificently as he groans and licks you through your orgasm like a man that has known nothing but starvation his entire life.

And when it has all plateaued there is nothing left but an unrepentant desire to have him entirely when he slithers back up your body, sharp features endearingly pleased and his pretty mouth still shining with your release as he pushes you back into the bed and slides his cock teasingly against your wet cunt.

You go boneless. Pliant in a way that feels like exquisite submission, that threatens to drive Loki wild.

Your legs part wide for him, pussy fluttering, still pulsing with aftershocks whilst he catches at your entrance and then he's pushing inside you, a guttural moan bubbling past his throat, and the blunt stretch is so fucking good that you can't breathe. So right that your mind reels with it.

He drops to kiss you as you struggle to keep your sanity, nose nudging softly, adoringly, against your own, and when he pulls back his eyes are striking. Endless pools of crystalised blue blown wide with reverence. With deep seated hunger ready to devour you whole.

You both groan as he presses the final inches inside you.

Your legs weave around his waist so you can take him deeper and he inhales sharply, yanking himself out of you until only the thick head of his cock remains. You wonder dazedly if maybe he intends it to be a punishment, that maybe his old smugness is more intact than you thought and he intends you to beg for it, but then he's snapping back into you with a rough cant of his hips that almost winds you, splits you open with a deliciousness that has you gasping.

"Oh my god–" You whimper and it's like any semblance of restraint he was still valiantly clinging to evaporates as his entire body trembles. “Loki–you feel so–fuck–”

He buries you beneath him, snares his hand into the locks of your hair and sinks his teeth into your throat whilst he rolls his hips, grinds them in a maddening push and pull, pressing in so fucking close as if he wishes to never leave you at all.

It's like he's lost to the sensation of you, the tight warmth of your cunt and the praise that pours from your lips whilst he chases that frantic need to be sunk deep over and over.

“I can't–I can't go easy on you–I'm sorry.” There is strain in his voice now, a lovely tortured tone, as if he was losing his head completely.

You cling to him desperately. Nails scoring crimson lines and small crescen moon marks into the milk pale skin of his shoulders as he fucks you like he wants you to splinter, like he wants you in pieces so he can burrow among your bones and make himself a home inside you.

He reels back suddenly, bunches his knees beneath your ass and pulls himself upright. You want to protest the loss of him but then he's grabbing your legs, hitching them higher until they're slung over his shoulders and using your thighs as an anchor to ram himself deeper, so he can punch up into the heart of you.

It's almost too much when his fingers slip to where you're joined, when he touches you, quick and unrelenting, until the pleasure is so intense there are tears of bliss gathering at the corners of your eyes.

It's almost too much when he stares at you like he's completely enamoured and reaches for your face, thumbing away a stray tear before it can slip fully down your cheek with a tenderness that threatens to crack you open. You're whimpering, pleading with him to kiss you, to make you cum, to feel him cum inside you, and the noise he makes in retaliation is low, hungered.

"Pretty little thing, you need to cum? You want me to fill you up?" He rasps - wicked and dripping with a dark shade of longing. He tilts his hips, angles himself so his next thrust plunges into that part of you that makes your cunt spasm and a loud wail tear from your lips. "Fuck - go ahead, let me feel it, let everyone hear you make a mess all over my cock."

His name claws out of your throat on a broken cry, the sound of it jagged, ruined, as every muscle in your body locks up tight until you're violently trembling, bursting wet around him, and everything becomes a scatter of pure pleasure and dizzying bursts of radiant light.

It takes only moments before the same sensation hunts him so closely. Your cunt gripping him tighter, milking him, until he's snarling a punched out curse. The rising crescendo of slapping skin suddenly faltering as his deliberate pace becomes a frantic, savage thing.

"That's it darling - my pretty little goddess - beautiful thing, all mine." He praises before he chokes, folding himself over you and claiming your lips in a messy kiss. Devouring your mouth as you broke and broke and broke.

He ensures you are shattered entirely and only then does he allow his own devastation. His breath stuttering, voice shredding, body convulsing as he fucks you through it and growls your name, spilling, hot and deep, inside you.

It goes on for hours.

Until the desperation has bled from his veins and his skin has cooled to a normal temperature.

It's deep into the night when the two of you finally collapse into the sheets exhausted, the cool press of his body tangled with yours a blissful relief to both your mind and the flushed heat of your own sticky skin.

Every inch of you is raw - littered in marks from his fingers and teeth, the phantom stretch of him still making you ache.

Loki holds you tight to him, draws you close against the sharp rise and fall of his chest and cradles your head like you're something infinitely precious.

He doesn't speak though and you have a feeling his mind is struggling to process the sudden leap in the relationship between you, picking it apart and trying to discover what this makes you to him.

The silence blisters and pricks at you until you can't handle it any longer and you blurt out the first thing that comes to your pleasure-addled brain.

"Well… good to know you're not going to die."

His chest shakes lightly under your cheek and you realise he's chuckling, a soft, light sound slipping from his lips that you don't think you've ever heard from him.

"That drug was never going to kill a god." He scoffs, trailing feather light fingertips down your arm. "But I can see how it would be dangerous for mortals, which is precisely why I insisted on taking your place."

Wait–

What.

You lurch up and twist in his hold to look at him, his eyes, guarded and hesitant, as he watches you and attempts to gauge your reaction.

"You took my place to protect me?" You whisper, inhaling a sharp breath he nods.

There's something blooming in your chest, something you don't want to look at too closely so soon, something that bloomed also when he called you his. But as soft as his gesture makes you, it also bothers another part of you, the part of you that is an avenger and more than capable of dealing with dangerous situations.

You tell him as much and he grumbles.

Something along the lines of. "Do you really expect me to stand by and let something happen to you if I can prevent it? I don't want to see you hurt and mortals are so -"

He doesn't get to finish before you're planting your hands firm against his cool chest and growling. "If you say fragile or weak, I swear I will ruin this otherwise sweet moment and punch you in that perfect face."

His eyes narrow, glinting dark and tempting, and his voice drops to a wisp of coiling smoke.

"You can try, darling."

God, is he really trying to seduce you again.

"Stop trying to distract me." You swat at him angrily. "Next time just come along and work the mission with me, don't get me taken off. Deal?"

He watches you for a moment, arches a brow at the way you glare at him before huffing. "I suppose."

There's barely any time for you to grin smugly at your victory before he's hauling you down and rolling you beneath him, his razor sharp smile gleaming above you as his eyes pitch dark once more.

"Now, how about we seal our little deal."

#loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x y/n #loki #loki x reader #loki x you #loki odinson #loki odinson x reader #loki odinson x you #loki odinson x y/n #loki fanfic #loki fanfction

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amethystarachnid · 2 months ago

Note

Hi I've just come across your Valentines challenge and I love it! My request is Fake Dating and Loki. Please!

PRETENDING

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open (only by asks)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 10k

ᯓ★ Summary: when your father tells you about the marriage he has arranged for you you are already coming up with a plan to escape it, and you might need the help of your dear friend, the God of Mischief.

ᯓ★ TW(s): someone stabs someone else with a poisoned knife and the injuried one goes into a coma (I wrote it like this to not spoiler anything lol)

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The golden spires of Asgard stretch into the endless sky, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. You stand on one of the many ornate balconies of your father’s estate, the heavy folds of your gown brushing the marble beneath your feet. From here, you can see the Bifrost bridge shimmering in the distance, but the breathtaking view offers no comfort. Not when the weight of your father's latest decision hangs over you like a storm cloud.

“Y/n,” he had said only this morning, his voice firm with the kind of authority that leaves little room for argument, “Lord Eirik is a wise and wealthy man. The union would benefit our house greatly.”

Lord Eirik. The name alone makes your skin crawl. You’d met him once, years ago—a man older than your father, with cold eyes that roamed far too freely. And now, your father expects you to marry him, all for the sake of strengthening alliances and preserving the honor of your house.

You grip the balcony railing tighter, your knuckles turning white. There has to be another way.

The soft sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, light and calculated, as if the person approaching enjoys the art of making an entrance without announcing it. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Pouting over arranged marriages? How very traditional of you,” Loki’s voice is smooth, laced with amusement, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity.

You sigh but can’t help the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not pouting.”

Loki steps closer, leaning against the railing beside you. His emerald-green robes flutter gently in the evening breeze, and his raven-black hair, perfectly styled as always, catches the last rays of sunlight. Mischief dances in his eyes, but there’s something softer there too—something he hides well.

“Then what would you call this brooding display?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at your stiff posture.

“Desperation,” you mutter, before you even think to stop yourself.

Loki arches a dark brow, his curiosity piqued. “That bad?”

You finally turn to him, your chest tightening. Of all the people in Asgard, Loki is the one you can trust, even if trusting him sometimes means falling victim to elaborate pranks or being roped into schemes you didn’t sign up for. But he’s been your friend for years, since you were both barely more than children running through the palace halls, and now he’s the only one you can think to turn to.

“I need your help,” you say, the words tasting heavier than you expected.

Loki straightens, his playful smirk faltering just slightly. He crosses his arms, studying you. “Now this is interesting. Usually, people only seek my help when they’ve truly run out of options.”

“I have run out of options.” You let the frustration bleed into your voice, feeling the weight of it. “My father is going to marry me off to Lord Eirik. I can’t—” You stop, the bile rising in your throat. “I won’t do it.”

Loki’s expression shifts, the humor fading. There’s a flicker of something deeper—concern? Anger? It’s hard to tell with him. “I assume your father isn’t one for simple persuasion?”

You scoff. “Not when it comes to alliances. He’s set on this, Loki. The only way he’ll back down is if he believes I’m already… involved.” You hesitate before forcing the rest of the words out. “With someone more powerful. Someone he wouldn’t dare cross.”

Loki’s sharp mind picks up on your meaning instantly. His smile returns, slow and deliberate. “And who better than the God of Mischief himself?”

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding. “Will you do it? Pretend, I mean? Just until my father calls off the arrangement.”

He leans in, closer than necessary, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Darling, you wound me. Of course, I’ll help.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a wave of relief washing over you. But before you can thank him, he adds with a wicked grin, “Though I must warn you, I’m an exceptional actor. You might fall in love with me for real.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the warmth that blooms in your chest. “In your dreams, Loki.”

He chuckles, but there’s something else beneath his laughter—something softer, hidden deep. If only you knew how close to the truth his teasing really is.

The next morning, it begins.

Loki arrives at your family’s estate in a flourish of green and gold, his entrance nothing short of theatrical. His presence alone commands attention, but today, there’s an extra layer to his performance. His smile is softer when he sees you, his touches more lingering, every gesture calculated to sell the lie.

Your father watches from the grand hall, seated on his ornate throne-like chair. His expression is unreadable as Loki approaches him, your hand securely tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Lord Y/f/n,” Loki begins, his voice carrying a practiced charm, “I believe you and I have much to discuss.”

Your father’s gaze flickers between the two of you, his jaw tightening. “Does this have something to do with my daughter?”

Loki’s smile widens, and he draws you subtly closer. “Indeed. You see, we’ve been… involved for quite some time now. And I thought it best to make our intentions clear before any unfortunate misunderstandings arose.”

There’s a heavy pause, the kind that seems to stretch across the entire hall. Your father’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think he might call the bluff.

But then, he speaks. “I see.”

It’s hard to tell if he believes it, or if he simply recognizes the delicate politics at play. After all, Loki is the prince of Asgard, brother to Thor, son of Odin—if your father openly challenges him, it could mean far more than just a personal insult.

He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I assume you intend to treat her with the respect she deserves?”

Loki dips his head in a mock bow, though his voice is sincere when he says, “Of course. Y/n is… precious to me.”

Your heart stutters at the way he says it, but you quickly remind yourself that this is all part of the act.

Later, as you walk through the palace gardens, away from the prying eyes and heavy expectations, you turn to him. “That was… convincing.”

He offers a playful grin. “Did you doubt me?”

“Not for a second.”

You both fall into an easy silence, the kind that only comes with years of friendship. Yet now, there’s something unspoken between you—a tension you can’t quite name.

“Thank you,” you say softly, breaking the quiet.

Loki stops walking, turning to face you fully. There’s something in his eyes, something deeper than mischief. “Anything for you, Y/n.”

You feel your breath catch, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is still just part of the act.

But before you can dwell on it, he smirks again, the moment slipping away. “Now, shall we make this charade more convincing? I believe a few stolen glances and lingering touches are expected.”

You laugh, swatting at his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, fake betrothed to me.”

What neither of you says is how easily this charade could slip into something real.

For Loki, it already has.

And for you? Well, only time will tell.

The next few days in Asgard unfold like scenes from a grand play, each one more elaborate than the last. It doesn’t take long before whispers ripple through the golden halls, carried on the breeze like wildfire.

You hear them everywhere—soft-spoken words trailing behind you as you walk through the palace gardens with Loki, your arm laced in his, your smile painted carefully onto your face. The stories grow with every passing day, stretching the truth in ways only Asgardians could manage.

“Did you hear? Prince Loki and Lady Y/n have been secretly involved for years.”

“I always suspected something. Did you see the way he looked at her during the last feast? Like she was the only one in the room.”

“I heard he challenged Lord Eirik himself, told him to stay away from her.”

“That’s not all. Someone said he plans to propose soon. Imagine that—a royal wedding!”

You try not to let the gossip get under your skin, but it’s impossible not to hear it, impossible not to feel the stares following you everywhere you go. Loki, on the other hand, thrives in it. He walks beside you with the ease of someone who has spent a lifetime performing for an audience. He basks in the attention, offering charming smiles and knowing glances to anyone bold enough to meet his eyes.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” you murmur one afternoon as you pass a group of noblewomen who pretend to be absorbed in a conversation but clearly hang onto every word between you and Loki.

“Immensely,” Loki replies without missing a beat. He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Though, I think I could convince you to enjoy it more if you’d play along a little better.”

You pull back to glare at him, but the twinkle in his green eyes disarms you. “I am playing along.”

“Hardly. You still stiffen every time I touch you.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

You huff in annoyance, but the truth of his words gnaws at you. Despite the charade, despite the time you’ve spent with Loki over the years, something about the closeness now—about what it means—makes it harder to pretend. Because pretending means noticing things you’ve tried not to notice before. Like the way his fingers linger at the small of your back, or how his gaze softens when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Still, you manage a smile for the sake of your audience and link your fingers more tightly with his. “I’ll try harder.”

“Good.” He grins, triumphant.

But the real test comes sooner than you expect.

Loki approaches you late one evening in the palace library, where you’ve sought refuge from the endless gossip and prying eyes. The tall shelves lined with ancient tomes offer some comfort, but not nearly enough.

He strides in, his dark green cloak billowing behind him, and you know immediately that something is different.

“What?” you ask, setting the book aside.

He leans against the table, his fingers drumming against the polished wood. “We’ve been summoned.”

Your stomach twists. “Summoned?”

“To see my parents.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Odin. Frigga. Meeting the All-Father and the Queen wasn’t something you’d fully thought through when you first begged Loki for help. But of course, it was inevitable. If the story was going to hold, you’d have to convince them as well.

You try to steady your breathing. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

You swallow hard. “And… what do we do?”

Loki’s usual confidence falters for a moment, so brief you almost miss it. But then he straightens, slipping back into the role as easily as breathing. “We do what we’ve been doing. Pretend.”

You stand, nerves knotting in your chest. “It’s Odin. And Frigga. They’ll see right through us.”

He steps closer, his expression softening. “Frigga might. But Odin… well, he’s been fooled before.”

There’s a flicker of bitterness in his voice, quickly masked, but you choose not to push. Instead, you take a deep breath and meet his gaze. “Then let’s make it believable.”

The next morning arrives far too quickly.

You wear a flowing gown of deep emerald silk, chosen carefully to match Loki’s signature color. Your hair is braided elegantly, delicate gold threads woven through it—Frigga’s tastes are well-known, and you hope to make a good impression.

Loki meets you outside the grand hall, looking every bit the prince in his regal Asgardian attire. He offers you his arm, and when you hesitate for just a moment too long, he smiles softly. “It’ll be fine.”

You place your hand on his arm, feeling the tension beneath his cool exterior. “You’re nervous too.”

“Of course. I’m about to introduce my supposed beloved to the All-Father and the Queen. They’ll dissect everything you say.” He pauses, then adds more quietly, “But you’ll do fine.”

The heavy doors of the hall creak open, and together you step inside.

Odin sits on his throne, his golden armor gleaming beneath the grand beams of the hall, Gungnir resting at his side. His one good eye fixes on you and Loki as you approach, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Frigga sits with her usual calm grace, her blue robes flowing around her like water, though her eyes are sharp and knowing.

You bow low, as does Loki, though his is more casual, a prince bowing to his own parents but still observing the formality.

“Mother, Father,” Loki begins, his voice smooth but carefully measured, “I bring Lady Y/n before you.”

Odin’s gaze lingers on you, heavy and powerful, and you feel the weight of his scrutiny. “We have heard whispers,” he says finally, his deep voice reverberating through the hall. “Of your… intentions.”

Loki nods, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Indeed. Y/n and I have been… close for some time now. I thought it best you meet her.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Frigga speaks next, her voice gentle but firm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/n. I’ve long heard of your family’s standing.”

You straighten, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. “The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.”

Her smile is kind, but her eyes are sharp. She sees more than she lets on.

Odin leans forward, his knuckles tightening around Gungnir. “And tell me, Lady Y/n, what is it about my son that draws your affections?”

Your heart pounds. This is it—the moment that could unravel everything if you don’t answer carefully.

You glance at Loki, who watches you intently, his usual smirk absent, his jaw tense. And in that moment, something shifts. You think of all the times he’s been there—the years of friendship, the whispered secrets, the laughter, the mischief, and now this.

You meet Odin’s gaze. “Loki has been my friend for many years. He is… brilliant, clever, and fiercely loyal to those he cares for. Beneath his mischief, there is kindness—more than most people see.” You pause, swallowing. “And he makes me feel… seen.”

The hall is silent. Odin watches you carefully, but Frigga’s expression softens.

Loki clears his throat, breaking the tension. “As you can see, Father, I chose wisely.”

Frigga’s smile returns, more genuine now. “It seems you have.”

Odin leans back, still unreadable. “We shall see.”

The meeting ends shortly after, but the tension lingers as you and Loki leave the hall.

You exhale deeply once the heavy doors close behind you. “Well. That was… terrifying.”

Loki chuckles, though it’s quieter than usual. “You did well. Even I almost believed you.”

You arch a brow at him. “Almost?”

He smirks, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “You were… convincing.”

As you walk through the palace, you notice more than ever how the whispers have grown. You catch snippets—your name, Loki’s, theories about how long the two of you have been secretly involved, about whether wedding bells are on the horizon.

It should feel overwhelming, but strangely, it doesn’t. Not with Loki walking beside you, his arm brushing against yours, his warmth grounding you.

But what lingers most is the look on Frigga’s face when you spoke—the knowing softness in her eyes, as if she could see right through the lies to something else, something truer.

You wonder if she saw the same thing you’re beginning to feel. Something deepening between you and Loki, something you didn’t expect.

And as Loki glances at you, his smile softer now, less forced, you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too.

The calm that settles over Asgard after your meeting with Odin and Frigga is short-lived. For a few brief days, you feel the weight lifting, as if the worst of it is behind you. The whispers in the palace grow louder, but now they carry a different tone—gossip laced with excitement rather than judgment. People speak of your so-called love affair with Loki as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But the feeling of safety is fragile, thin as glass, and it shatters the moment Lord Eirik returns to the city.

You first hear of his arrival from one of the palace maids, who finds you in the gardens where you and Loki had spent countless hours perfecting your act. She approaches nervously, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes wide.

“My lady,” she whispers, glancing around to ensure no one overhears. “Lord Eirik has returned. He rode through the gates this morning.”

The news strikes like a physical blow, the breath catching in your throat.

“Already?” you manage to ask, your fingers tightening around the edge of the marble bench you sit on.

She nods quickly. “I heard he was… furious.”

The words hang in the air long after she departs, leaving you alone in the garden’s silence. You stare at the carefully trimmed hedges, your heart racing. Of course, Eirik wouldn’t take this lightly. His pride, his status—it was all tied to the alliance your father had promised him. And now, with you publicly attached to Loki, that promise had crumbled before his eyes.

A shadow looms over you before you even hear the approaching footsteps.

“I heard,” Loki says smoothly as he sits beside you, though there’s an edge to his voice, something darker than his usual playful tone.

“Of course you did.” You sigh, your shoulders sagging. “What do we do now?”

He leans back on the bench, looking up at the blue Asgardian sky, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw. “We keep pretending. And we let him come to us. I’m sure he will.”

You glance at him, worry swirling in your chest. “Loki, Eirik isn’t like the nobles who whisper behind fans and silk curtains. He won’t just let this go.”

A sharp smile curls at Loki’s lips, but there’s no warmth in it. “Then let him try something.”

You know that tone. It’s the same one he uses when he’s plotting something dangerous, something reckless.

“Loki…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I won’t let him lay a hand on you, Y/n.”

It should comfort you, but all it does is make the knot in your chest tighten.

You don’t have to wait long before Eirik makes his move.

That evening, as you walk the palace corridors alone—something you now regret—his voice cuts through the stillness.

“My lady.”

You freeze before turning around.

Lord Eirik stands at the end of the corridor, dressed in deep burgundy robes lined with fur, his gray-streaked beard groomed perfectly, though his sharp eyes burn with fury.

You swallow, trying to summon the courage you’d had when speaking to Odin. “Lord Eirik,” you say as calmly as you can, though your heart pounds in your chest.

He strides toward you, each heavy step echoing off the marble walls. “I had expected a different welcome upon my return. Perhaps one from my betrothed.”

You straighten your shoulders, meeting his gaze. “I am not your betrothed.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “That was not your decision to make.”

The air between you thickens with tension, heavy and suffocating.

“My father agreed to the arrangement, yes,” you say carefully, “but I never did.”

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, you see the true depth of his anger, barely restrained beneath the surface. “And yet, now you belong to Loki? Do you think I don’t see this for what it is? A ruse. A desperate attempt to escape a future you did not want.”

You flinch, but refuse to look away. “If you see it so clearly, then why bother?”

“Because,” he hisses, stepping closer, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous, “I do not take well to being made a fool of.”

Your heart races, but you stand your ground. “I made my choice.”

Eirik’s hand twitches at his side, like he’s considering reaching for you, but before he can make another move, a familiar voice slices through the corridor, smooth and laced with venom.

“I suggest you step away from her, Eirik.”

You turn just as Loki appears from the shadows, his tall figure tense with restrained fury. His usual playful demeanor is gone, replaced with something far more dangerous. His green eyes burn as he closes the distance between the three of you, his steps slow and deliberate.

Eirik sneers. “So, the prince emerges. Tell me, Loki, how long do you expect this little performance to last?”

Loki stops at your side, his presence a solid wall between you and Eirik now. “Long enough for you to realize that she is no longer available to be traded like livestock.”

Eirik’s face reddens, his fury bubbling beneath his carefully constructed facade. “You think you can embarrass me like this? Ruin what was promised to me?”

Loki steps forward, the air around him crackling with restrained magic. “I think I just did.”

For a tense moment, you think Eirik might draw his weapon, might be foolish enough to challenge a prince of Asgard right here in the palace. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sneers, spitting his next words.

“This isn’t over.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and storms down the corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing until they vanish into silence.

You exhale sharply, your knees feeling weak beneath you.

Loki turns to you immediately, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Are you alright?”

You nod, though the adrenaline still courses through you. “I’m fine. I didn’t expect him to… I thought he’d just walk away.”

Loki’s jaw tightens. “Men like him never walk away quietly.”

You meet his gaze, seeing the worry beneath his sharp features. “Thank you. For stepping in.”

His fingers brush against your cheek, softer now, his anger replaced with something gentler. “I told you I wouldn’t let him touch you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest at the closeness between you. You’ve spent so much time pretending, weaving this elaborate lie, but this moment doesn’t feel like an act at all.

“Loki…” you start, unsure what you even want to say, but he shakes his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“We need to be careful. Eirik won’t take this humiliation lightly.”

You know he’s right, but part of you still lingers on the way his fingers brushed your cheek, on how his anger burned so fiercely on your behalf.

Over the next few days, the tension in Asgard thickens. The gossip shifts once more, no longer idle talk of romance and secret affections. Now it’s filled with sharp edges—talk of Eirik’s fury, of how the nobleman had been made a fool, of the confrontation in the palace corridors.

“He’ll retaliate,” you hear one nobleman whisper at a feast, his voice low but urgent. “Men like Eirik don’t take humiliation lightly.”

“He won’t dare cross Loki,” another responds, though even he sounds unsure.

You sit beside Loki at the long table, his hand resting casually on yours, playing the part still, though now there’s an undeniable tension beneath his touch.

“Everyone’s waiting for him to strike,” you murmur, sipping your wine.

Loki’s jaw tenses, but he keeps his smile in place for the crowd. “Let him. I’m ready.”

You glance at him, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his sharp features. There’s something more beneath his calm exterior, something darker brewing.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” you say softly, but he only offers that same infuriating, knowing smile.

“For you, I’d do anything.”

The words are playful, but there’s truth laced in them—a truth you’re not sure you’re ready to face yet.

But in the pit of your stomach, you know Eirik’s next move is coming. And when it does, it will shatter the fragile facade you and Loki have built, forcing both of you to face the deeper truths you’ve been hiding behind the mask of your lie.

The days following Eirik’s return pass in a haze of tension and whispers, every corner of the palace echoing with fragments of your story. What started as a desperate act to avoid a loveless marriage has spiraled into something far more elaborate—something neither you nor Loki fully anticipated.

You thought the hardest part was convincing Odin and Frigga, but now you see how naïve that was. The entire realm buzzes with the news of your supposed love. And there’s no way to retreat from it now.

The decision comes swiftly, a conversation you’re not even a part of.

One morning, you’re summoned to the royal chambers, your heart hammering in your chest. You half-expect it to be Odin demanding the truth, but when you step into the vast room, it’s Frigga who greets you, her gentle smile doing little to soothe your nerves. Loki stands near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff. He avoids your gaze.

“Lady Y/n,” Frigga says, her voice kind but measured, “we’ve been discussing the future.”

Your throat tightens. “The future?”

She nods, her hands folded elegantly in front of her. “Yours and Loki’s.”

You glance at Loki, but he still won’t meet your eyes.

Frigga continues, “Asgardian tradition holds that public declarations of love, especially from royalty, carry a certain… expectation. The people are watching. Your families are watching. There will be pressure.”

The word hits you hard. Pressure. That’s all this has been—a tight, suffocating cage you’ve been trying to escape, only to find yourself deeper inside it.

“I… I understand,” you manage to say.

Frigga’s smile is patient, but you see the knowing glint in her eyes. “Odin believes the most honorable course now is marriage. It will solidify the alliance between your family and the royal house. It will… legitimize what has been said.”

The room seems to tilt beneath you.

Marriage.

You’d known it was a possibility—this was the path you chose the moment you begged Loki to fake this relationship—but hearing it spoken aloud makes it real.

You finally look at Loki, and this time he meets your gaze. His green eyes, usually so full of mischief and confidence, are unreadable now, guarded.

“This is what needs to happen,” he says quietly.

The words sting more than they should. You know he’s playing the part still, but a small, fragile part of you had hoped… for something else in his tone. Something warmer.

Frigga, ever observant, watches the silent exchange between you. “There will be time to prepare, of course. But the arrangements will begin immediately. The people will want a grand wedding.”

You can only nod, your heart beating too loud in your ears.

As you leave the chamber, Loki falls into step beside you. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, the weight of what just happened hanging between you like a storm cloud.

Finally, you break the silence. “So. We’re getting married.”

He exhales through his nose, the faintest trace of a smile curling at his lips. “Seems so.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “I thought the whole point was to avoid being married off.”

His smirk deepens, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “At least this time it’s your choice.”

Is it? You want to say, but the words catch in your throat.

Instead, you glance at him, searching his face. “You don’t mind?”

Loki slows his steps, considering. “I’ve had worse fates.” He glances sideways at you, his green eyes softer now. “And it’s not as though I find the idea unbearable.”

Your stomach twists at his words, at the quiet honesty behind them.

He clears his throat, brushing past the moment. “We should… prepare. I’m sure the palace will be overrun with wedding plans soon.”

And it is.

Within days, Asgard buzzes with preparations. Nobles flock to the palace, eager to be part of the grand event. Silk merchants arrive with bolts of fabric shimmering in the sunlight. Jewels from realms beyond Asgard are presented as offerings for the bride-to-be—each more ornate than the last.

You’re swept into it all, barely able to catch your breath. Tailors drape you in rich fabrics, court advisors debate over seating charts, and Frigga herself insists on helping you select flowers from the royal gardens.

At first, it all feels like a dream—distant, surreal. You go through the motions because you have to, because this is what the story demands. But somewhere, amid the chaos, things begin to shift.

It starts when you see the temple where the ceremony will take place—its high arches carved with ancient runes, golden light pouring through the stained glass. You picture yourself standing there, before the entire realm, with Loki at your side.

You imagine the moment Odin will declare you husband and wife, the vows you will speak, the ring that will slide onto your finger.

And, unexpectedly, your heart flutters.

You try to brush it off at first. It’s just nerves, you tell yourself. The weight of everything happening so fast.

But it becomes harder to ignore when you catch glimpses of Loki in the quiet moments—when he thinks no one’s watching.

Like when you find him in the palace library, flipping through old texts on Asgardian wedding customs. You approach silently, watching as his brow furrows in concentration, his long fingers tracing the pages.

“Studying?” you tease, breaking the silence.

He startles, then chuckles softly. “I suppose I should know what I’m getting myself into.”

You smile, but the warmth in your chest lingers longer than it should.

And then there are the times you catch him staring at you during fittings or dinners—when he isn’t wearing his usual smirk but something softer, more vulnerable.

It’s in those moments that you begin to realize the truth you’ve been avoiding.

You care for him.

No—more than that.

You love him.

The realization hits you one evening as you stand on the palace balcony, watching the stars blink into existence above Asgard. The city glows beneath you, but all you can think of is Loki—the way he’s been by your side through all of this, protecting you, helping you.

He didn’t have to say yes when you begged him for help. He didn’t have to throw himself into this charade so completely.

But he did.

And somewhere along the way, pretending stopped feeling like pretending.

You press your hands to the balcony railing, your heart racing.

You love him.

But before you can even begin to unravel what that means, a new threat looms—darker and more dangerous than the whispers of nobles or the expectations of the court.

Eirik.

Though he has remained out of sight since his confrontation in the palace corridors, you know better than to believe he’s simply accepted his defeat.

And you’re right.

In the shadowed halls beneath Asgard, Eirik plots.

The slight against him, the humiliation he endured—it festers like a wound, growing deeper with each passing day. He cannot stand the thought of you standing at Loki’s side, wearing a crown that should have elevated his own status.

And so, he makes a decision.

If he cannot have you, if he cannot claim the future that was promised to him, then no one will.

Whispers reach his ears—servants who are easily bribed, guards who turn a blind eye. He learns of the wedding plans, the route you will take to the temple, the secluded chambers where you rest.

He plans his revenge carefully, methodically.

A poisoned blade. Swift, silent.

He imagines it easily—how the chaos would erupt if the bride-to-be were found dead on the eve of her wedding. The scandal, the shame, the grief. It would tear through the palace like wildfire.

Loki would suffer.

And that, more than anything, is what Eirik desires.

But what he doesn’t anticipate is how fiercely Loki watches over you.

Late one evening, as you sit in your chambers, going over the endless lists of preparations, Loki slips inside silently.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, noting the candle still flickering beside you.

You smile tiredly. “Too much to think about.”

He crosses the room, sitting beside you. There’s something different in his demeanor tonight—tense, alert.

“You should rest,” he says gently. “The days ahead will be… intense.”

You glance at him, your heart aching with the weight of your unspoken feelings. You want to tell him—about the realization on the balcony, about how this no longer feels like an act to you.

But before you can speak, Loki’s expression shifts, his eyes darkening as he glances toward the window.

In an instant, he’s on his feet, his dagger appearing in his hand as though conjured from thin air.

“Stay here,” he orders, his voice low and sharp.

You barely have time to react before he vanishes into the shadows, leaving you breathless, fear curling in your chest.

Something is coming.

And this time, it’s not just your heart that’s at risk.

The tension that had filled the room moments ago lingers like a fog, even as Loki returns from the window, dagger still gripped tightly in his hand. His sharp eyes scan the corners of your chamber one last time, but there’s nothing—no shadowy figure lurking in the darkness, no threat waiting to strike. It had only been a flicker, perhaps a trick of the moonlight or the frantic pounding of both your hearts playing tricks on you.

Still, Loki doesn’t lower his weapon.

“It was nothing,” you whisper, though your voice shakes.

“Perhaps,” he replies, but the edge in his voice remains. “But I won’t take chances with your life.”

Your chest tightens at the words, at the sheer intensity of the way he looks at you, as though the thought of something happening to you is unbearable. You realize then how deeply this act—the lie you both started together—has woven itself into something neither of you can ignore.

“Loki,” you begin, but the words falter on your tongue. There’s so much you want to say, but the lump in your throat threatens to choke you.

He steps closer, lowering the dagger and reaching out, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he repeats, softer this time, but the weight of his promise feels heavier now.

The moment lingers between you, thick with unspoken confessions, but before either of you can cross that fragile line, he pulls back.

“You should rest,” he says, though his voice sounds strained, as if he’s fighting against something inside himself. “We both should.”

And with that, he slips out of the room, leaving you alone with the racing of your heart and the realization that the feelings you’ve buried for so long can’t be hidden much longer.

The following day—the day before the wedding—passes in a blur. The palace buzzes with preparations, the air filled with the scent of fresh flowers and the soft hum of music as musicians rehearse for the grand ceremony. Nobles flit about like jeweled birds, discussing everything from the seating arrangements to the color of the tapestries.

But none of it feels real.

Not to you.

Your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the heavy weight of what you need to say. The feeling that’s been growing inside you—quiet at first, then louder, unstoppable—can’t be ignored any longer. The thought of standing before all of Asgard tomorrow and binding yourself to Loki in a marriage that had begun as a lie is unbearable if he doesn’t know the truth: that it’s no longer pretend for you.

You find him that afternoon in the palace gardens, beneath the towering silverleaf trees where the two of you had so often sought refuge from court life. He stands with his back to you, hands clasped behind him, staring out over the shimmering pools that reflect the afternoon light.

You take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage, before stepping forward.

“Loki.”

He turns, the faintest smile touching his lips. “Y/n.”

But his usual mask of mischief and ease falters when he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“I need to talk to you,” you say, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

His brow furrows, and he gestures for you to sit on the bench beneath the trees. “Of course. Is something wrong?”

You sit, the cool stone beneath you grounding, though your heart still races. “No. Well, yes. I—Loki, I can’t keep pretending.”

His entire body stiffens. “You want to call it off?” he asks, but there’s something vulnerable in his voice, hidden beneath the careful nonchalance.

You shake your head quickly. “No. That’s not—” You exhale, frustrated with yourself. “This started as a lie, yes. A way to avoid being forced into a marriage I didn’t want. But somewhere along the way…” Your throat tightens. “I stopped pretending.”

His eyes widen, the green depths shimmering with something fragile and raw.

“I love you, Loki,” you say, the words finally spilling out, freeing you from the cage they’ve built inside your chest. “I don’t want tomorrow to be a lie. I want it to be real.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. The soft rustle of leaves, the trickle of water, and the loud thundering of your own heartbeat.

And then Loki moves, swiftly, closing the space between you and pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face as he searches your eyes, as if trying to determine if you’re telling the truth.

“You love me?” he whispers, his voice filled with disbelief, hope, and something else—something deeper.

You nod, tears pricking your eyes. “I do.”

A smile breaks across his face then, the most genuine one you’ve ever seen. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he confesses, his voice cracking slightly. “Since before all of this. I never thought—”

You don’t let him finish. Instead, you press your lips to his, soft at first, tentative, before he deepens the kiss, pouring all the emotions you’ve both kept hidden into that moment. It’s everything you hoped for and more—electric, grounding, and undeniably real.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “will be real. I swear it.”

You nod, your heart full in a way it’s never been before. “Tomorrow.”

But happiness, it seems, is always fleeting.

That night, after the palace has quieted, after you’ve retreated to your chambers to rest before the wedding, a darkness lingers—one that neither you nor Loki can sense.

Eirik.

He’s been watching, waiting, hidden in the shadows of the palace where no one dares to look. His fury has only grown, twisted into something vile and dangerous. And now, with the wedding hours away, his plan is set into motion.

You lie in your bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling, unable to sleep. The events of the day replay in your mind—your confession to Loki, his to you—the way your heart had soared with hope for the first time in so long.

But that hope shatters the moment your chamber door creaks open.

You sit up, expecting it to be Loki, but the figure that steps into the moonlight is not him.

It’s Eirik.

Before you can scream, he’s on you, pressing a hand over your mouth, his blade gleaming in the moonlight.

“I warned you,” he hisses, his face twisted with rage. “I told you this wasn’t over.”

You struggle beneath him, panic clawing at your chest, but he’s too strong. His blade plunges forward, piercing your side. A sharp, searing pain rips through you, followed by a coldness that spreads quickly.

The blade is poisoned.

But then—another voice, fierce and filled with rage.

“Get away from her!”

Loki bursts into the room, his magic already crackling around him. A blast of green energy slams into Eirik, sending him flying across the chamber. Loki is on him in an instant, his dagger pressed to Eirik’s throat, but his eyes flick to you, wide with horror.

“Y/n!”

You clutch your side, blood seeping through your fingers, your vision already blurring.

Loki knocks Eirik unconscious with a swift blow, then rushes to you, cradling you gently in his arms.

“No, no, no,” he whispers, his hands trembling as they press against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? You’re going to be fine.”

But the poison is already coursing through your veins. You can feel it—cold and heavy—pulling you under.

“L-Loki…” you whisper, reaching for his face, your fingers barely able to brush against his cheek.

“Stay with me,” he begs, tears slipping down his face. “Please, Y/n. I can’t lose you.”

You try to smile, but it’s weak, your strength fading fast. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he chokes out, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “More than anything.”

Your vision darkens, your body growing heavier. The last thing you see is Loki’s tear-streaked face before the world slips away.

But you don’t die.

Not yet.

Loki lifts you in his arms, his magic flaring wildly as he races through the palace toward the healers, his mind filled with one thought: he will save you.

No matter what it takes.

The palace, once alive with wedding preparations and buzzing excitement, now stands in eerie silence. The vibrant flowers meant to line the temple aisle wilt in the morning sun, untouched. The music that had echoed through the golden halls has fallen quiet, replaced by whispers and hurried footsteps. Word spread quickly—faster than anyone could have expected. By dawn, all of Asgard knows what happened.

You lie motionless on the grand bed in the royal healing chambers, your skin pale against the deep emerald sheets. The faint rise and fall of your chest is the only sign of life, but even that seems fragile, as if it could slip away at any moment. The wound at your side has been cleaned, the poison drawn out as much as possible by the royal healers, but the damage is done. You’re trapped in a deep, unnatural sleep—a coma—your body caught between life and death.

Loki sits by your bedside, his hand tightly wrapped around yours, refusing to let go even for a moment. His knuckles are white, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, but he doesn't care. All that matters is you.

It’s been hours since the attack. Hours since he carried your limp, bloodied body through the palace halls, screaming for help, his voice raw with panic. The healers had done all they could, but the poison had been crafted with dark intent—designed to kill slowly, to make sure the victim suffered. And now, you lie here, untouched by time, your face serene, while the people who love you crumble around you.

Frigga stands in the corner of the room, her hands folded tightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She’d tried to offer comfort to Loki, but he had brushed her off, his grief too raw, too consuming. Odin had been there too, though he had left after ensuring the healers were doing everything in their power. His anger at Eirik had been palpable—a rare sight, even for Odin.

But it’s your father who breaks the tense stillness. He storms into the healing chamber, his ornate cloak billowing behind him, eyes wild with rage and grief. Seeing you there, pale and still, strips him of all the formality he’s known for. The weight of his noble status means nothing now.

“My daughter…” he chokes, rushing to your side, but stopping just short of the bed as if afraid that touching you will break what fragile life remains.

Loki stands abruptly, his protective instincts flaring. “This happened because of him,” he spits, his voice low and venomous. “Eirik did this.”

Your father’s face hardens, his grief shifting into something darker. “I will see him executed for this.” His voice trembles with fury.

“Good,” Loki snaps. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

Frigga steps forward, placing a gentle hand on Loki’s arm, but even her touch doesn’t soothe the rage coursing through him. His magic swirls just beneath the surface, green tendrils flickering around his fingers.

“We will ensure justice is done,” Frigga says softly, her voice filled with grief but calm. “But right now, Y/n needs us. She needs you.”

Loki swallows hard and looks down at you again. Your hand remains limp in his, your skin far too cold. He sinks back into the chair beside your bed, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“I should have been faster,” he whispers, guilt lacing every word. “I should have stopped him before he touched you.”

Frigga shakes her head, her voice gentle but firm. “You saved her life, Loki. Without you, she would be gone.”

But her words feel hollow to him. Because you’re still not awake.

In the depths of the palace dungeons, Eirik sits shackled, his once-pristine robes torn and bloodied from his scuffle with Loki. His face is bruised, his lip split, but his expression is one of seething hatred—not regret. He glares at the guards stationed outside his cell, their spears crossed tightly over the iron bars.

He knows what fate awaits him. Attempting to assassinate the future princess—on the eve of her wedding, no less—is a crime punishable by death. There is no path out of this, no clever words or noble connections to save him now.

But that doesn’t stop him from holding onto his bitterness.

“They’ll kill me for her,” he mutters under his breath, his hands tugging at the heavy iron chains around his wrists. “All for that witch and her liar of a prince.”

The guards ignore him, standing stiff and silent, but their disgust is evident in the way their grips tighten on their spears.

Above, the court gathers in the throne room. The news of the attack has stirred Asgard into chaos, and the nobles demand justice. Odin sits on his throne, Gungnir in hand, his face a mask of fury barely held in check. Frigga sits beside him, her usual calm replaced by cold, regal anger. Your father stands at the base of the dais, his voice thundering as he calls for Eirik’s execution.

“This man,” your father spits, “attempted to murder my daughter—the future princess of Asgard. There is no trial needed for such treachery. His fate should already be sealed.”

Murmurs ripple through the assembled nobles. Some nod in agreement, while others exchange uneasy glances. Eirik’s family—once powerful and influential—stand to the side, their faces pale with shame and horror. Their name will be tarnished forever.

Odin raises a hand, silencing the whispers. “There will be justice. But we are not barbarians. Eirik will face trial tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Loki’s voice cuts through the hall like a blade. He storms into the throne room, his cloak billowing behind him, his face twisted in fury. “Y/n lies in a coma. She may never wake, and you speak of trials?”

Frigga stands, reaching for her son, but Loki brushes past her, his eyes locked on Odin. “He deserves nothing but death.”

Odin’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains calm. “We will uphold Asgardian law. Even now.”

But Loki shakes his head. “This isn’t about law. It’s about her. About the woman I love lying on her deathbed while her attacker sits comfortably in the dungeons.”

A hush falls over the court at Loki’s words. Love. There had been whispers, of course—rumors that the engagement was more than a political arrangement—but to hear him say it aloud sends a ripple through the room.

Frigga moves to her son’s side, her hand resting on his arm. “Y/n would not want you to lose yourself to this rage.”

But Loki can’t stop. Not now. “She trusted me to protect her, and I failed.” His voice cracks then, the weight of his guilt finally breaking through. “If she dies…”

“She won’t,” Frigga says gently but firmly. “The healers are doing everything they can.”

But the uncertainty remains. Because no one knows if you will wake.

In the healing chambers, your father sits beside you now, his large hands dwarfed by your delicate ones. He’s silent, tears glistening in his eyes. For all his strength, for all his power as a nobleman, he is just a father now, grieving for his daughter who may be lost to him forever.

“I promised your mother I would keep you safe,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I failed her. I failed you.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles, his tears falling onto your cold skin.

Loki returns a short while later, his steps heavy as if the weight of the entire realm rests on his shoulders. Seeing your father there, he hesitates at the door, unsure if he’s welcome. But your father lifts his head and meets Loki’s eyes, something raw and real passing between them.

“She loves you,” your father says, his voice hoarse.

Loki swallows hard, his throat tight. “I know.”

“I didn’t want this for her—the court, the power plays, the danger. I wanted her to be happy.” He looks down at you, his voice cracking. “I never thought… this would be the price.”

“I’ll fix this,” Loki says, stepping forward. “I swear to you, I will.”

Your father doesn’t argue. He sees the grief in Loki’s eyes—the guilt—and knows it mirrors his own.

“Then bring her back.”

That night, Loki doesn’t leave your side. He sits by your bed, your hand still wrapped tightly in his, his magic thrumming just beneath the surface. He knows Asgardian law, knows that Eirik will be brought to trial and likely sentenced to death, but it doesn’t bring him peace. Because none of it matters if you don’t wake.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers trembling. “You promised me tomorrow,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You said we’d make it real.”

He swallows hard, tears burning his eyes. “So don’t leave me. Please, Y/n.”

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the soft sound of your breathing.

But then… the faintest twitch of your fingers in his hand.

Loki’s heart leaps, his eyes snapping to your face, but your eyelids remain closed.

Still, it’s hope. And it’s enough.

“I’m not letting you go,” he vows, his magic flaring around him, filling the room with soft green light. “No matter what.”

The days following the attack pass in a haze of tension, fear, and fragile hope. The palace remains silent, weighed down by the uncertainty that lingers in the air, but within the healing chambers, where you lay trapped in your poisoned sleep, life begins to stir.

Loki hasn’t left your side since that night. He’s there when the healers come and go, carefully checking your pulse, your breathing, the wound on your side that has started to heal. He sits by your bed, your hand cradled in his, whispering words meant for you alone—confessions, promises, and prayers, though he’d never admit to praying. Sleep comes to him only in short, restless intervals, his head often resting on the edge of your bed, his fingers still intertwined with yours, unwilling to let go even in his exhaustion.

It’s in one of those moments, when he’s dozed off, that it happens.

Your fingers twitch—small, faint, but undeniably real.

Loki jerks awake, his heart pounding as he lifts his head, eyes wide. For a moment, he thinks he imagined it, that his mind has finally broken beneath the weight of waiting. But then, your hand twitches again, this time more deliberately, your fingers curling slightly against his.

“Y/n,” he breathes, his voice trembling as he leans closer. “Y/n, can you hear me?”

Your brow furrows, your eyelashes fluttering against your pale cheeks. It’s as if your body is fighting its way back to him, clawing through the darkness that held you prisoner. Then, slowly, your eyes open, hazy and unfocused at first, but unmistakably alive.

Loki’s breath catches in his throat.

You blink, struggling to focus, your body feeling impossibly heavy. The room is blurry, but the first thing you truly see is him—his tear-streaked face hovering above yours, his eyes filled with so much emotion it makes your heart ache.

“L-Loki?” you whisper, your voice hoarse, barely more than a breath.

A choked laugh escapes him, mingled with a sob he doesn’t have the strength to hold back. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

His hand cups your cheek so gently, as though you might shatter if he touches you too firmly.

You try to speak again, but the effort drains you, your eyes threatening to close.

“Don’t push yourself,” Loki says, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “You’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.”

You feel the warmth of his hand, the tremble in his voice, and despite the pain and weakness coursing through your body, you find a fragile comfort in his presence.

“W-what happened?” you manage.

His jaw tightens, the memory of that night flashing in his mind. “Eirik. He… he tried to kill you.” His voice is bitter, filled with venom, but when his eyes meet yours again, they soften. “But I stopped him. You’re safe now.”

You swallow hard, the fog in your mind slowly clearing as you recall the moment—the cold blade, the burning pain, his voice calling your name as you slipped away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your fingers weakly squeezing his hand.

His lips curl into the faintest smile. “You scared me, Y/n. I thought I’d lost you.”

“I came back,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth lifting, despite the pain. “For you.”

Tears fill his eyes again, but he lets them fall, not caring who sees. “And I will never let anything happen to you again.”

Your recovery is slow, but each passing day brings more strength. The healers, though amazed you survived the poisoned blade, constantly warn you to rest, but it’s difficult with Loki hovering by your side like a watchful hawk.

He refuses to leave the room for more than a few moments at a time, often bringing books, flowers, or enchanted lights to keep you entertained. You tease him for it, your humor slowly returning, but there’s a comfort in having him so close.

Your father visits daily, often staying silent, simply holding your hand and whispering soft apologies. He blames himself for what happened—for nearly forcing you into a marriage with Eirik, for not protecting you. But you forgive him. In truth, there’s nothing but relief in his eyes now when he sees you alive.

The trial for Eirik had been postponed multiple times, each delay issued by Odin himself. No one had wanted to move forward with it until you were awake, until you were strong enough to face what had nearly destroyed you. And now, weeks later, you finally are.

“I want to be there,” you tell Loki one morning, sitting up in your bed, your strength finally returning enough to hold yourself upright without his assistance.

He frowns deeply, his arms crossed. “Y/n, you’re still recovering. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I need to see it through,” you insist, your eyes filled with determination. “I need to see him pay for what he did.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, but he knows he can’t deny you this. “Then I’ll be at your side the entire time.”

“Always,” you say, smiling softly.

“Always.”

The grand hall is filled with nobles and soldiers, all gathered for Eirik’s long-delayed trial. The tension is palpable, whispers flowing like water as you make your entrance, draped in flowing Asgardian silks, your posture regal despite the lingering ache in your side.

Loki is at your side, his hand on your arm, guiding you gently but firmly through the sea of eyes. The crowd parts for you, many bowing their heads in respect—though some, you notice, can’t help but stare. You are a living ghost to them; no one had expected you to survive.

On the dais, Odin sits with Frigga, her eyes soft but fierce as they settle on you. Your father stands near them, his face hardened with the weight of what’s to come.

Eirik is brought forward, shackled and bruised, though his expression holds no remorse. He glares at you, his lips curled in disdain, but Loki steps forward, his presence towering, his magic subtly crackling in the air. One wrong move, and Eirik wouldn’t leave the hall alive.

The trial is swift. The evidence is undeniable—Eirik’s confession to guards, Loki’s eyewitness account, and the poisoned blade recovered from your chambers.

But the moment that stills the hall is when you stand, your body trembling from exertion but your voice clear.

“I stand here today,” you begin, your eyes fixed on Eirik, “alive despite your cowardice. You took from me my safety, my peace, and nearly my life. But you didn’t take my strength.”

Eirik sneers but says nothing.

“I will not let you break me,” you continue, your gaze never wavering. “Nor will I let your hatred poison what I have with Loki.”

Loki steps closer, his hand slipping into yours, anchoring you as Odin rises from his throne.

“Eirik,” Odin’s voice booms, “for your crimes against the crown, against Y/n, and against Asgard itself, you are sentenced to exile from this realm. You will be banished, stripped of your titles, your magic bound, and never permitted to return.”

A mix of gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd. It’s a merciful punishment—perhaps too merciful—but Odin’s decision is final.

Eirik’s face twists with rage as guards drag him away, but you feel no satisfaction watching him go. Only relief that it’s over.

Weeks later, as the palace slowly returns to its usual rhythm, you and Loki begin to speak of the future. This time, without lies or politics or necessity.

The marriage that had once been a facade is now something else entirely—something real.

Loki brings it up first, in the gardens beneath the silverleaf trees where you had first confessed your feelings.

“We never did have a proper proposal,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes filled with warmth.

You smile, brushing your fingers over his. “No, we didn’t.”

He steps closer, reaching into his pocket to pull out a delicate ring—an emerald stone set in gold, shaped like twisting vines. “Then let me do this properly.”

Your breath catches as he lowers himself to one knee, his expression both nervous and overjoyed.

“Y/n,” he says, “will you marry me? Not because of duty, not because of lies—but because I love you, more than I ever thought I could love anyone?”

Tears fill your eyes, but your voice is steady. “Yes, Loki. A thousand times yes.”

When he slips the ring onto your finger and pulls you into his arms, the world seems to fall away, leaving only the two of you.

This time, the wedding is planned with care—not rushed, not clouded by politics. The palace buzzes again, but this time it feels right. Frigga oversees the arrangements, often pulling you aside to discuss flowers or gowns, her joy clear in every smile. Odin, though still stoic, offers his blessing, and your father—though still protective—gives his approval, seeing the happiness that radiates from you.

The day of the wedding dawns bright and golden, the skies clear, the air sweet with blooming flowers. You stand before Loki in the temple, draped in flowing silks, your heart full in a way you never imagined possible.

Loki looks at you as though you are the only thing in the universe, his smile soft, his hands trembling as he takes yours.

When you speak your vows—real vows, honest and pure—there is no trace of the fear or pain that once loomed over you both. There is only love.

And when he kisses you, sealing your bond, the palace erupts in cheers, and you know—truly know—that this was always meant to be.

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glasvera · 7 days ago

Note

Could you do a smut of president Loki and fem secretary reader?

Oh yeah... that can certainly be arranged ;)

Presidential Feast

President!Loki x Fem!Secretary!Reader

Description: Things are not all they appear to be in the office of the president's secretary. Though you work diligently at your desk, there is a certain someone who works even harder to get you to come undone completely from below.

Warnings/Disclaimers: SMUT (18+ only, Minors DNI!!!!), PWP, public sex, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering

A/N: I blacked out and when I woke up, there were two thousand words of Loki smut on my computer screen. Dunno how that happened. Fair warning, this is barely proofread. I'm just amazed I wrote this in one sitting LOL

Word Count: 2k

“...So, if there is any way I could speak to him directly…”

The saccharine smile wears at the corners of your lips. You’ve worn it for hours now, feigning pleasantries, signing papers, redirecting and avoiding pointless or dangerous questions from the press. You were excellent at keeping face, as it were, but even still…

This job was exhausting.

Maybe it was foolish of you to expect people to use their eyes. President Loki was clearly busy in his office, preoccupied as he leafed through stacks and stacks of backlogged paperwork. You could quite clearly see that through the door’s window. Apparently, most of your appointments, scheduled or otherwise, were incapable of seeing the commander in chief hard at work. Why else would they bother you ceaselessly for a chance to speak with him?

At least your superior had a soft spot for you. A new desk made from gorgeous stained mahogany sits before you, polished to almost a mirror-like shine. It feels sinful to rest your elbows upon it as you lean forward and prop your chin on your wrist.

Though, perhaps it’s not nearly so sinful as what happens beneath.

When the president had procured this desk for you, he ensured it was the best in all aspects. Naturally, this included a spacious, enclosed area for you to stretch your legs. The legroom truly was unparalleled and quite comfortable. If you wanted to, you could easily crouch down and fit underneath. After all, that’s exactly what Loki is doing right now.

While you explain for the billionth time today that the president is not available at present, gesturing to the clone that pantomimes reading documents the next room over, the real Loki kneels between your legs and bites softly at your inner thigh. His teeth drag bluntly over the sensitive skin before he sucks on it, marking you under the mini skirt he’s bunched up around your hips.

“He… he’s clearly quite busy--” You inhale sharply when his tongue laves over the dark bruises he’s created upon the canvas of your legs. The man standing in front of you eyes you curiously with an arched brow. Canines dig into your tongue to stifle the moan at the back of your throat. Loki’s breath is hot against your core through the fabric of your underwear. “--and I am not feeling terribly well. If you could just try again tomorrow--”

“I have been attempting to get a hold of him for three weeks now!” the man exclaims as his face grows red. “This policy needs his attention immediately!”

“Sir, if I might remind you, that is not how the American government works. You would be much better off addressing this with your representative in the House, and--ah-!”

With a hand over your mouth, you bite down on your index finger to muffle any further slip-ups. You can feel the smirk on Loki’s lips as they lead feather-light kisses closer and closer to your folds. Fingers curl into a white-knuckled fist as you grip the edge of your desk.

Thankfully, your current “client” is far too focused on his own agenda to pay attention to your strange behavior.

“That’s exactly why I’m here! I called and called, and I think they blocked my number--”

You barely hear what he’s saying even with his frantic gestures and waving his arms. The man is clearly quite animated about whatever it is he’s going on about. It’s hard to focus on that when your senses hone in on the dextrous fingers that hook in the waistband of your undergarments. It’s a bit difficult while you’re sitting down, but he manages to shimmy them down your hips without too much effort on your part.

Thankfully for you, this man seems more than content to ramble on about how important this proposal is and why it should be the first thing on the agenda. So much so that he begins pacing about the room as he talks.

And then Loki’s tongue flattens and paints a fat stripe through your folds. You’re so glad this guy is turned away from you when your eyes roll back and you clamp your hand over your mouth fully. That accursed, talented appendage zigzags and swirls, drawing patterns all along your slit but never quite high enough where you want it most. He drinks of your nectar, feasts on your essence. Your breath comes out in staggered gasps and your brows knit together.

“Are you even listening to me!?” the man practically shouts, startling you and pulling your attention away from the euphoria between your legs. “I swear, the government these days--!”

“Do you wish for me to deal with him, my dear?” you feel more than hear Loki’s words as he whispers them, his cheek pressed lazily against the plush of your thigh while his verdant green eyes gaze up at you. His lips glisten with your slick, and it makes your head spin with desire. It would be so tempting, so easy…

But you snap out of it and shake your head. No, you wish to do this yourself. It’s part of your job, after all, at least in a roundabout way. And if your intuition is correct, really all you’ll need to do is change your approach.

The real challenge is staying focused while Loki gets back to work lapping at your cunt.

“I understand your frustrations, sir,” you practically coo, removing your hand from your face and leaning forward. You bat your long, fake eyelashes up at him. His demeanor changes instantly and you see his shoulders relax. “I really am listening. You were just so passionate about it that I was taken aback.”

“You… yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just such a serious matter, and no one is listening…” he bemoans.

“Such a mischievous little devil,” Loki purrs quietly. Your legs tremble on either side of his head with the effort it takes to keep yourself composed. “You’re playing this poor man like a fiddle, aren’t you? What a cruel mistress…” The nearly inaudible chortle rumbles through his lips and onto your dripping core. It sends a shudder through your entire body and prickles your skin.

You make a show of licking your lips before pinching the bottom one between the tips of your canines. Loki is right--you have this man absolutely captivated.

“Here, sweetheart,” you begin, sliding a sticky note towards him. “I’m sorry there’s nothing more I can do today, but that’s my personal cell. Give me a call tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do for you, okay?” It’s almost sickening putting on a show like this, but it might as well be your calling with how easily he buys it. He’s cradling the piece of paper in his hands like it’s some sort of holy artifact as he thanks you profusely and finally makes his exit from your office.

As soon as the door closes behind him, in fact, you finally exhale the breath you were holding with an airy whimper.

“Mm,” Loki moans into your folds. He rewards you with a flick of his tongue at your clit that leaves you digging your nails into the wood. “What a perfect succubus you make. Tell me…” he begins, teasing a finger at your entrance. “Who did that number belong to? I know you wouldn’t dare give such a lowly creature your actual information.”

“It’s--” You keen and bite your lip when his long finger slowly curls into you. “It was your--fuck--” Loki smiles devilishly as your hips buck into his hand. “--your brother’s cell.” Your cheeks flush and you laugh breathlessly. “I imagine that will be quite… quite the conversation tomorrow…”

An almost evil laugh thrums in his chest. “Gods, but I do love that wonderfully deviant mind of yours,” he praises as he begins thrusting the digit in and out. Kitten licks flutter against your sensitive bud, and your toes curl in your heels.

“And I--” you huff, moving instead to grip the more comfortable arms of your office chair, “I need more of that deviant tongue of yours,” you joke breathily.

He slides a second finger into you and begins pressing against the soft, spongy spot, grinning wickedly when he feels your thighs tense around him. “Making demands of your president? How terribly daring of you.”

Words are beginning to fail you even before his lips encircle your clit. Your chest heaves as you whimper with every breath. He sucks on that pleasurable little bud, timing every curl of his fingers with a practiced swipe of his tongue. Ecstasy builds and bubbles in your core, and you try so desperately to contain the sounds that threaten to spill from your lips. Even if no one is here right now, someone could walk in at any moment. That thought shouldn’t thrill you nearly as much as it does, and you feel Loki chuckle as he suckles on your clit.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he purrs. “The thrill, the danger, chasing such forbidden pleasures…” A low whine sounds in your throat as he continues. “I wonder… what would you do if someone were to discover you like this, in the throes of pleasure?” He slows his fingers, instead thrusting with purpose as your walls quiver around them. “Would you stop me?” He knows your answer when you mewl and tighten around him, but he asks anyway. “Or would the desire only intensify as you ride my tongue and desperately chase your release?”

“Loki, fuck--!” You’re so close, so desperately close, hanging off of the precipice as the pleasure below waits to consume you.

But his fingers still inside you, and the flicks of his tongue that punctuated his words cease entirely. The edge was right there, but now you feel it slipping away from your grasp as a mournful wail rings from you.

“That is President Loki to you,” he corrects you before busying his mouth by biting and sucking at the skin of your thighs. “You will address me properly if you want to continue indulging in this… deviant tongue of mine.”

Your breathing is ragged. Your nails are threatening to rip off the padding of your armrests. “P… President…” Your eyes nearly roll back when his fingers drag slowly through your velvety walls. It’s more, but it’s not enough. Your body trembles. “President Loki, please.”

Immediately you feel his fingers thrusting vigorously in and out of your soaked core. Your moaning returns in full force, potential visitors be damned.

“That’s it. You sound so terribly pretty when you beg for me,” he praises. His tongue finds your clit and swirls feverishly about the bud, and you feel all of the pleasure that had begun to fade return tenfold as you grind shamelessly onto his face. It’s a fire roaring in your belly that licks its flames outwards to tingle at your fingers and toes. Loki moans his own appreciation as he slurps and swallows, smacking lewdly as he drinks up everything you give him. The vibrations push you over the edge as you let out a silent scream, mouth agape as your thighs clamp around his head and you buck wildly against his tongue.

Your body slumps in your chair as you stare, dazed, off at nothing in particular. Your chest heaves with the effort of catching your breath. The orchestrator of your undoing merely smirks, licking delicate stripes up your sensitive folds that make you twitch and whimper from the overstimulation.

“What a beautiful mess you make,” he regards you as his tongue collects your essence from his lips. Before you have the chance to reply, to right yourself, he snaps his fingers and vanishes from his place beneath you.

Well, he doesn’t vanish completely.

No, instead he takes the place of his clone, and when your bliss induced stupor finally allows you to glance over through the window into his office, you see him smiling wickedly and patting his face gingerly with a handkerchief. Perfectly composed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred while you try desperately to recollect yourself from a mind shattering orgasm.

Truly… this job was exhausting.

#marvel rivals #marvel rivals x reader #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #president loki #marvel rivals loki #loki laufeyson #smut #marvel loki #marvel rivals smut #loki smut #loki laufeyson smut #fanfic #marvel rivals fanfic #glasvera writes #writing request #i am not immune to loki propaganda

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earlgreydream · 8 months ago

Text

Throne. || god!Loki x reader

this lovely anon message spoke to me, you know my favorite thing is being loki's little slut: all i can think of is i would love to be lokis little throne pet... i want him to threaten me everyday to freeze me like he did heimdall if i act up or defend thor - oh to be a loki boot licker

Loki wasn't paying attention. Great festivities were happening before him, celebrating the young prince, yet he couldn't bring himself to care.

He was far too busy entertaining himself with you, his little pet kneeling between his legs. You were at the base of his throne where you belonged, your hand gently palming the growing tent in his leather pants. Loki shifted his weight, leaning back to give you better access to an Adonis body.

"Come here," he reached down, wrapping a large hand around your bicep and hauling you upwards to straddle his lap.

You looked over your shoulder to see Thor approaching, the reason that Loki had moved you. He was extremely possessive, known to take the sight of anyone who dared to even look at you in way that angered him. Dark jealousy flashed across Loki's features and he grabbed your jaw to turn you back to him. He was well aware of his brother’s lust for you, a motivation to kill Thor if it weren’t for their father.

"Don't look at him."

"Yes, master," you conceded softly, parting your lips as his thumb ran across them.

Your fingertips trailed over the defined muscles of his chest, his skin smooth and hard under your touch. You gazed at Loki from beneath your lashes, silently asking for more. He was eager to indulge you both, simmering with annoyance at the interruption. Normally, he’d just let the festivities continue while you worshipped his cock. However, there was no way in all nine realms that Loki would allow his brother to enjoy your vulgar performance.

"Brother, it's a celebration! Won't you share your toys?" Thor shouted drunkenly, the stupid jovial smile infuriating Loki.

He stumbled onto the throne’s platform, an offense no one else would survive. While you trusted Loki, the rapid approach of Thor startled you. You leaned into Loki, close enough to hear the heavy breathing of the angry god.

Loki caught Thor's wrist when he reached out to touch you, fury burning in his gaze. The possessive god would never allow Thor — or anyone else to touch you. He had made it clear that you were to be as loyal — lest you wanted to suffer the same frozen fate as Heimdall. Threats weren’t necessary to maintain your devotion, and Loki knew this, knowing you would follow him into Hel.

"What do you think, pet? Will you service my brother?" Loki's head tilted to the side as he studied your expression.

"I only serve you, Loki," you shook your head.

Loki threw Thor back, the older god slamming against the golden walls of Asgard’s palace. The guests howled with laughter, quickly drawing all of the attention back to Thor. The two of you were quickly forgotten, the breath you held escaping in a relieved sigh.

“Very obedient,” Loki praised, sitting up to kiss you.

His mouth was warm against yours, tasting of whiskey and familiarity. Your fingers threaded into onyx tresses of his long hair, pulling yourself ever closer to him.

“You’re mine,” he hissed against your lips, earning a soft whine of agreement as you sat back.

“I will only ever be yours, master,” you promised, glowing under Loki’s approval.

He leaned back, slowly rubbing a hand up your thigh. The light from behind made you look ethereal, and his party was once again forgotten as he admired you. Loki gently stroked your cheek, his eyes softening as you leaned into the touch.

“Please,” you murmured softly, aching for him.

Normally, someone in your position would never express need out of turn, but Loki held a soft spot for you. It aroused him when you begged, and truth be told, though you were his pet, he was happy to spoil you.

#loki #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki marvel #loki odinson #loki x reader #loki x you #loki smut #loki x reader smut #tom hiddleston #avengers!loki #avengers #marvel #marvel fanfic

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uhhhj13iguess · 1 month ago

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oh you little minx

peter parker x best friend!reader

summary: peter stumbles upon you and loki sparring, and his jealousy outs him

wc: 1.4k

peter wandered the halls of the compound, relishing in his afternoon off. his classwork was done, he'd finished helping tony on his suit, and he couldn't wait to use his free time to bug you. he hummed as he checked his phone again, tapping it aimlessly as he noted you still hadn't responded to his text. weird. i wonder where she--

peter heard your voice through the doors of the training room.

"like this?"

"perfect, darling."

peter frowned instantly at hearing loki's voice, not taking a moment to think as he hurried through the doors to the gym. he walked in and saw the two of you on the mats in the midst of what revealed to be a sparring session. he stayed back, watching you fight.

you faked loki out with a punch, immediately instead aiming for his feet. he dodged both though, catching your ankle with his and dropping you to the mat. he hovered over you, much too close for peter's comfort.

"darling, you're dealing with the god of mischief. you're going to have to try harder than that."

he watched as you gave the god a smirk, mischief in your own eyes. you immediately dropped to a pout, a whine escaping your throat.

"loki, i just don't think i'm any good at this."

he watched loki let up, sitting taller and letting go of your wrists. "you're getting there, lady (y/n). you just need to work on--OOMF."

you used loki's relaxed state to switch the positions, twisting him quickly to gain leverage on the situation and pin him to the mat instead. loki beamed at you with pride, a devilish smile creeping on his lips.

"clever girl."

the entire scene made peter's blood boil. he tried to regulate his breathing, clenching his fists at his side and rolling his shoulders out as he watched you stand and help loki up. the god stood far too close to you for peter's liking, not helping the overdrive of his senses in that moment.

"now darling, i'd like to teach you another move. it's quite effective when going against someone much larger than yourself." loki helped you get into a stance, walking you through the movement. with each passing touch on your body, peter was seeing red. he took a step forward and stopped himself.

you're not her boyfriend, parker. leave it alone.

loki finished his explanation and you feigned a look of confusion. "wait, i'm sorry, can you explain it one more time?"

"surely, my love." loki began to rewind his speech as you caught him off guard, immediately using the move he had just taught you against him. his back hit the floor and he choked out a cough. he sat up slightly, looking up at you as you stood in pride.

"oh, you little minx." loki growled as he grabbed your ankle and pulled you down with him, a fit of laughter erupting from you as both rolled on the ground, more playful than anything at that moment.

peter watched as loki held your waist and something in him snapped. he angrily marched out towards the two of you before he could stop himself, imaginary smoke billowing from his ears.

he came in hot and caught you off guard, jumping in your spot on the ground with loki.

"peter! hey, when did you come in?" you gave him a soft smile, unaware of the war crimes you'd committed against the poor boy.

he gave you a curt smile, his eyes shooting daggers at loki. the god smirked back at him.

"ah yes, spiderling. how do you do?"

Peter took a sharp inhale, his anger beginning to dissipate, instead flooding with panic. he had no idea how to justify being here.

"uh, fine. good. how, how are, uh, you guys?" peter cringed, mentally face palming as the words came out of his mouth. that's all you got?

loki stood, extending his hand out to help you up. peter's gaze was drilled in on your hands touching, loki's grasp on your hand lingering long enough to remind peter why he had come over in the first place.

"actually, (y/n), could i see you for a second?" he asked impatiently, jaw clenched tight.

loki's eyes lit up, a knowing smile creeping over his features. "ah, i see. lady (y/n), you must excuse me. i look forward to our next lesson."

he reached for your hand once more, bringing it to his lips and grazing your flesh with a soft kiss -- entirely making eye contact with peter as he did. he stood straight again, peter matching his form, fists clenched at his side. he tossed the boy a wink.

"peter."

loki left the room swiftly, leaving you and peter alone. peter felt instantly relieved, the weight on his shoulders lifting as he felt his body relax a bit. you unwrapped your knuckles, making your way over.

"what's up, pete? what did you need?"

fuck.

he hadn't thought this far ahead. again.

he shifted slightly. "oh! um, i just, uh..."

for fucks sake, you have a graduate's degree in biophysics. peter, think! of something!

"um..."

a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. "pete? you're acting weird, are you feeling okay?"

peter shifted awkwardly, his face flushing as he suddenly found his shoes all too interesting.

you started to get a picture of what was going on.

you stepped closer to him, close enough that he had to meet your gaze. you met it with a smirk.

"peter, if i didn't know any better, i'd say that you're jealous."

he let out a scoff. "jealous? me? yeah, well, good thing you don't know better."

"mhm, i'm sure. that didn't bother you? seeing his hands all over my body?"

peter clenched his jaw harshly, looking past you with an eye roll he had no control over. you had him exactly where you wanted him.

"no, i-i mean, no, obviously not. why would it?"

you let out a soft hum, placing a hand on his chest. "i don't know parker, why would it?"

peter took a shakey breath, chewing on the inside of his lip as he locked eyes with you again. fuck.

"i... yeah. okay, yeah, maybe." he squeezed his eyes shut, regretting every decision he'd made in the past twenty minutes.

bingo.

"oh, peter. i didn't mean to make you jealous, baby."

the pet name of it all made peter choke on his breath, his eyes flying open wide to pair with his beet-red face.

"well, i.... i just..."

"you're cute when you're jealous, you know that?"

peter was going to combust, the feeling of your hand on his chest beginning to burn a hole through his shirt. "y-yeah?"

you smiled up at him, snaking your arms around his neck and nearly bumping your noses together. "yeah,"

peter's shaking hands found their way to your waist with the little confidence he had left.

"you don't have anything to worry about, though."

peter let out a breath against your lips. "i don't?"

you shook your head. "no, pete."

you closed the gap between the two of you, pressing your lips softly against his. peter melted into the feeling, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist as he deepened the kiss. it started out sweet, a soft and innocent first kiss between pinning best friends, a gentle affirmation. it grew hungrier quickly, though, as you nipped at peter's bottom lip and tugged at the hair on the nape of his neck. peter moaned into the kiss, earning a smirk from you as you pulled back.

"oh," peter panted, staring at you as though you weren't even real.

this earned a sharp laugh from you as you leaned in to give him a hug that he immediately reciprocated.

"i can't believe you were jealous of loki, peter." you breathed into his chest. he leaned his head on top of yours.

"i can't believe he used the word minx in a non-sexual setting."

she's on a fic bender again, i fear. as always, leave any requests!

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vampireimiko · 2 months ago

Text

Loki and Bucky (separate) Relationship Headcanons !!

warnings, none at all i promi

note, when i tell y'all i need them BOAF at the same time...

Loki

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Being in a relationship with Loki of all people is NOT for the weak. Especially if you have the same personality as him. Sassy and doesn’t know when to watch his mouth? Oh, you two would be menaces together.

Like, if you ever called him a "drama queen," he will dramatically sigh and say, "Drama king, thank you very much."

If you ever dare to out-sass him, he’ll just squint at you like, "Ah, so this is betrayal." But secretly? He loves it. Someone who can keep up with his wit? Absolutely captivating.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° But I digress! Loki is the king of dramatic declarations for a reason. He'll sweep into a room and declare, "Ah, my beloved! I have longed for you!" even if you just saw him five minutes ago.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ °He constantly tries to fluster you with smooth lines, but the second you turn it around on him, he short-circuits.

"Loki, you’re breathtaking."

"—Wait, what?... I mean! Well, yes, of course I am."

He says barely managing to get his composure back.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° As the God of Mischief, he obviously loves to prank people. But he has a strict rule: You are off-limits. However, if you ever wanted to join in on one of his schemes he'd never deny you 😹

He also likes teaching you magic! Not the dangerous kind, just little illusions so you can mess with people together. A true power couple.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He pretends to be above cuddling, claiming that it's one of the stupid things that mortals do, but yet he clings to you in his sleep like an octopus.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Jealous Loki is hilarious. He won’t get outwardly possessive, but he’ll suddenly be extra touchy or slip in phrases like, "Yes, my darling, the love of my immortal life, my one and only." just to make a point.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He has an unfair advantage in arguments because he’ll just shapeshift into you and mock you in your own voice. "Oh look at me, I’m so adorable when I’m mad—" cue you smacking him with a pillow.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Despite his dramatics, he trusts you more than anyone. He’s not used to being vulnerable, but with you? He can just be—no masks, no tricks, just Loki.

Bucky

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Bucky adores the time he spends with you and is so happy to call you his. He will try to act tuff from time to time, but you see straight through his facade each and every time.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He has a soft spot a mile wide for you. You could ask him to do anything, and he’d grumble about it but do it anyway. "I swear, doll, you’re the only one who could talk me into this."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Bucky loves hearing you laugh. If he can make you snort? That’s such a win for him😭. He’ll smirk like it’s the best thing he’s done all day.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° The man has dad jokes and grumpy old man energy for days.

"Bucky, did you just say ‘back in my day’ unironically?"

"…Shut up."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He gets ridiculously flustered if you compliment his smile. "Shut up—No, I’m not smiling. You’re imagining things."

"Yeah okay, James!" You teased poking his side.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° If he’s in a bad mood, you’re one of the only people who can pull him out of it. Everyone else gets grunts and glares, but the second you walk in? He melts.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He pretends he doesn’t get jealous, but his hand will suddenly find your waist if someone flirts with you. Or he’ll just stare at the poor fool until they get the hint.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He likes holding your hand, but he always lets you take his metal one first. He doesn’t even realize it until you lace your fingers together, and then his grip tightens just a little—like he never wants to let go.

He still feels a bit insecure about his robotic limb here and there, but in moments like these, it doesn't even matter. Being near you is all he needs.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° When he wakes up from nightmares, you’re the only thing that grounds him :((. Just your voice or the feeling of your hand on his is enough to bring him back.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He’s absolutely wrapped around your finger, and honestly? He wouldn't have it any other way 🫶🏾

additional note ! AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

#spirits works 🤍#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel #marvel rivals #marvel rivals x reader #marvel x reader #gn reader #fem!reader #male!reader #black!reader

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vbecker10 · 2 months ago

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For either Loki or Bucky… dating someone who uses edible glitter in food just because. They love glitter anyway, but sparkly food just brings an extra spark of joy.

For the record, I’m talking about the mica based glitter, not the plastic stuff. Makes the food sparkly, does no harm to your digestive system. Also tasteless and has no texture.

Scared of a Little Glitter?

Pairing: Bucky x female reader (Y/N) new relationship

Summary: Bucky spends the night at your apartment for the first time and he learns you have a very interesting food habit when he offers to make you coffee in the morning.

A/N: This is so adorable @firedrakegirl ! Lol I absolutely love this request. Thanks so much for sending it. I hope you like it! Sorry it took me literally forever to get back to writing it. Thanks for waiting! 💚

You open your eyes slowly when you feel a soft kiss on your cheek. "Good morning doll," Bucky says quietly, you can hear the smile in his deep voice. His metal arm is wrapped around your waist, keeping your back flush to his bare chest as your legs tangle with his under the covers.

"Good morning handsome," you smile sleepily, turning your head far enough to kiss his lips lightly without slipping from his comfortable grasp.

"Want some coffee?" he asks.

"Yes please," yawning as you nod and cover his metal arm with yours, your fingers intertwine with his.

"I'll need you to let go," he whispers in your ear. You pout and he chuckles in response as you let go of his hand. "It'll only take a few minutes," he kisses your shoulder from behind then pulls off the covers and gets out of your bed.

You roll over resting your chin on your palm as you watch him bend to pick up his jeans from the floor and slip them back on. "Enjoying the view?" he smirks when he looks up and makes eye contact with you.

You giggle, shaking your head, "Nope."

He laughs and walks to the edge of the bed, leaning down to kiss your lips when you look up at him. "Liar," Bucky winks at you, pulling his lips away from yours much too quickly for your liking.

"Y/N, can you come here?" Bucky calls from the kitchen moments later.

You get up from bed quickly, concerned by his tone of voice. Throwing on Bucky's discarded shirt and a pair of shorts you leave your room and call back, "Everything okay?"

He waits until you enter the kitchen to respond which only makes you more curious. "I think your milk went bad," he sounds unsure of himself as he holds the container as far away as possible in his metal hand. "It's green," he shakes the milk slightly and the colors swirl together. "And blue?"

You laugh, "There's nothing wrong with it. I added glitter to it."

"Glitter?" he keeps his eyes on the container as the glitter slowly settles to the bottom and the liquid becomes white again.

"Yep," you confirm with a nod.

"Why?" your very confused boyfriend asks as you take the milk from him and unscrew the cap.

"Cause it's pretty," you answer, "Obviously."

"Okay sure but now we can't drink it," Bucky says as he watches you pour it into your mug. "Wait, Y/N-" he cringes.

"It's totally fine," you tell him with a smile. "It's not the same type of plastic glitter Tony uses in his pranks."

"It's not?" the super soldier furrows his brow as you add a bit of sugar and mix your coffee. You pour a little milk into his mug and he groans quietly.

"Nope, this is made for food," you explain. "It just makes it sparkly and fun." You pick up his mug and hand it to him.

He looks down into the mug, watching the glitter swirl around the coffee. "I'll take your word for it," he puts the mug down on the counter.

"Oh come on, give it a try," you blow on your coffee lightly then take a sip. "I promise you can't taste it and it doesn't have a weird texture or anything."

"I'll pass," he shakes his head.

"Scared of a little glitter?" you giggle.

"I'm not scared, I just don't want to drink it," Bucky says.

"Mmhmm," you hum as you walk past him to put the milk away and grab the ingredients to make breakfast.

"I'm not scared," he insists, folding his arms across his chest.

"I believe you," you say with a smirk, closing the door to the fridge. "Can you make some toast? Breads over there," you point towards the bread next to your toaster.

"Sure," he nods, thankful you've dropped the glitter topic.

Setting the eggs next to the stove you ask him, "Scrambled or omelet?"

"Scrambled please," he kisses your cheek after he loads the four slices into the toaster.

"Coming up," you grab a pan and a bowl. Bucky stands behind you, his arms around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. After cracking a few eggs into the bowl you ask him, "Red or purple?"

"What?" he lifts his chin.

"Red or purple?" you ask again without any further explanation.

"Red?" he responds and you giggle at how unsure he sounds as you open the cabinet next to you and pull out the red mica glitter. "No," he groans but it's too late.

"What?" you play innocent as you whisk the eggs.

"Glitter again?" Bucky sighs deeply.

You take another sip of your coffee and hold it up for him, "You can't taste it. Give it a try."

"I'd rather not," Bucky mumbles.

You laugh, "You remind me of the grumpy guy from green eggs and ham."

"I have no idea what that means," he says, "But green eggs sound gross."

"That's what the guy in the book said," you smile as you add the red, glittered eggs to the pan. "But he never tried them, he just decided he hated them cause they were green."

"That's a fair reason," Bucky chuckles.

"Anyway..." you roll your eyes, "His friend keeps trying to get him to eat it and when he finally does-"

"He dies," he laughs louder and you swat him with the towel you keep on your stove handle.

"No!" you scold him, trying to keep from laughing. "He realizes they are delicious."

"That was my next guess," he smiles and kisses your cheek.

"I'm sure it was," you say sarcastically as you continue to cook the sparkly red eggs. He watches over your shoulder and you look up, kissing his neck. "Bucky, trust me. You won't even notice the glitter."

"Okay," he finally agrees and you smile as the toast pops. "I'll grab plates. You want butter for your toast?"

"Yep, thanks," you smile to yourself knowing you rolled the stick of butter in pink glitter a few days ago.

Bucky laughs in disbelief from behind you, "Really? Even the butter?"

"I couldn't help it," you tell him honestly when he comes back with two plates. One plate has toast with pink, melted butter and the other has plain toast. "No butter for you handsome?"

He raises an eyebrow at you to answer your question and you giggle then put half the eggs on each plate. Bucky sits next to you at the dining table, staring at his food in silence as he pushes the eggs around with his fork. You wait patiently as he finally scoops the smallest bit possible onto his fork and holds it up to his mouth. He looks over at you and you smile to encourage him.

"The things I do for you," Bucky says dramatically just before taking a bite.

You drink your coffee and he looks at you with a bit of a shocked expression. You smirk, "Can't even tell there's glitter in it can you?"

"You're so annoying," you shake your head and eat your eggs.

"No," he admits.

He pulls your chair closer to him, "You love me."

"I know," you smile and kiss his cheek as he steals a piece of your pink buttered toast, "But you're still annoying."

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did ❤️❤️ Please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

@soubi001 @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @animnerd @cabingrlandrandomcrap @icytrickster17 @mjsthrillernp @holdmytesseract @lulubelle814 @alexakeyloveloki @siconetribal @ash-muses @loz-3 @firedrakegirl @wolfsmom1 @sabspoetic @peaches1958 @catsladen @michellewgrt @crimson25 @jaidenhawke @mochie85 @itscomplicatedx @motherofmischief

170 notes · View notes

urdreamydoodles · 2 months ago

Text

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your childhood was abusive, which caused you to have PTSD and your lover helps you through it

Please read with caution ♡

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter had always been perceptive, but he knew better than anyone how wounds could be hidden beneath easy smiles. He saw it in the way your body tensed at raised voices, how your fingers curled too tightly into the fabric of your sleeves when a door slammed too hard. He never pressed, never pried. He just let you be, offering his presence as a quiet, unwavering shelter.

- The first time he saw you flinch—really flinch—was when he’d accidentally knocked a stack of books off his desk. The sound had sent you back to something far away, something dark. He saw it in the way your breath hitched, in the glassy sheen of your eyes. And without a word, Peter had just… sat down. Cross-legged on the floor, keeping his movements slow, his voice soft as he said, "You’re safe. Right here, right now—you’re safe."

- Patience was something Peter knew intimately, and he carried it into every touch, every kiss, every moment spent tangled in the sanctuary of his arms. He never reached for you without warning, never raised his voice in anger. The world could be loud, but Peter? Peter was a whisper, a steady heartbeat against your ear, a warm presence always willing to meet you where you needed him.

- And God help anyone who reminded you of your past. The first time someone tried to tear into your scars with cruel words, Peter had them webbed to a streetlamp before they could blink. "People like you? You’re nothing," he said, voice calm but cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth he always gave you. Because Peter would take any punch for you—but he would never let anyone hurt you again.

- At night, when nightmares curled around your throat like smoke, he would hold you through it. His lips would press against your forehead, murmuring soft reassurances, his fingers tracing absent patterns into your skin. "You don’t have to be strong right now," he would whisper. "I’ve got you. I’ll always have you."

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony had seen trauma in every shape and shade, had felt it crawl beneath his own skin like a second heartbeat. But the first time he saw it in you, it wrecked him. The way you shrank at a raised voice, the way your entire body locked up at the sound of breaking glass. The realization hit him like a freight train—you hadn’t just survived something terrible. You had lived in it.

- He changed after that. Subtly, at first. No more slamming doors, no more snapping at employees. His hands stopped hovering near yours and instead waited, patient and steady, for you to reach first. His voice was softer around you, his movements slower. He was a storm everywhere else—but with you? He was the calm.

- But the world wasn’t always gentle, and Tony Stark was not a man who forgave cruelty. When someone thought it was funny to push your limits, to test your reactions, Tony didn’t even raise his voice. He just smiled—sharp, cold, terrifying. The next day, that person lost everything. Their job. Their reputation. Their place in the world. "No one touches what’s mine," he told you later, brushing a hand through your hair. "No one."

- Tony had never been one for sleep, but after learning the weight of your nightmares, he never left you alone in the dark. His arms became your haven, his heartbeat a rhythm you could anchor yourself to. And when you couldn’t speak, when the memories were too thick, he would simply pull you close and say, "It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Just breathe with me."

- You weren’t broken. He never saw you that way. You were a masterpiece with fractures, and Tony—Tony had always loved things that had lived, things that had survived. He traced his fingers over your scars like they were constellations, pressing kisses to the places that once held pain, as if rewriting history with every touch. "They don’t own you anymore," he murmured one night, lips against your temple. "Only you do. Only you ever will."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve was gentle by nature, but after he learned the truth—after he saw the weight you carried—he became something else entirely. He became careful. Every touch was preceded by a quiet "May I?", every movement slowed until he was sure you felt safe. The world had been unkind to you, but Steve Rogers would never be.

- The first time you flinched at his raised voice, he looked wrecked. He had only been arguing with Sam, nothing serious—but when he turned and saw the way your shoulders curled inward, the way your breath stuttered—his heart broke. That night, he held you without a word, just pressing soft kisses to your hair, silently promising to never let his anger touch you.

- He carried your pain like it was his own. When he saw bruises on others, when he heard whispers of children suffering at the hands of those meant to protect them—he acted. His fists never wavered when thrown in the name of justice, but when it came to you, his hands were only ever soft.

- Steve had always been a shield before a sword, and with you, that never changed. He positioned himself between you and the world’s cruelty, standing firm against anything—or anyone—who thought they had the right to hurt you. "No more," he told you one evening, his blue eyes burning with something fierce, something unyielding. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m here."

- He became your home. Not just in the way he held you, but in the way he stayed. When you woke up gasping from nightmares, when you couldn’t find the words for what hurt, Steve was simply there. His hands traced slow, soothing circles into your back, his voice a steady hum of comfort. "You’re not alone," he whispered against your skin. "You’ll never be alone again."

Thor

- Thor had never known restraint. He loved fully, existed loudly, and wielded his presence like the storm that bore him. But the first time he saw you recoil, saw the way shadows swallowed the light in your eyes at the wrong tone, the wrong movement—he stilled. For you, he would quiet the thunder.

- He learned to approach you with care, to temper his strength into something softer. "You are safe, my love," he told you often, his voice as steady as the earth beneath your feet. When others forgot, when the world was careless, Thor remembered. Every sharp sound was met with his immediate presence, his hands warm and grounding against yours.

- But the storm did not vanish—it was merely redirected. The first time someone sneered at your trauma, dismissed the things you had suffered, lightning cracked the sky. Thor did not raise his voice—he did not need to. He simply looked at them, eyes dark with a promise of wrath, and they crumbled. "You will speak no more," he commanded, and the heavens listened.

- At night, when the weight of the past crept in, Thor would wrap himself around you like an unshakable fortress. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, his lips pressing warmth into your hair. "Breathe with me, beloved," he would murmur, his heartbeat steady and unyielding against your own. "Feel the steadiness of my soul, the certainty of my love. You are here, in my arms, and I shall never let harm befall you again."

- Thor did not see you as fragile—he saw you as enduring. He did not mourn your scars, did not pity your past. Instead, he celebrated you, worshipped the strength it took to survive. "You are mighty," he whispered one night, pressing a reverent kiss to your palm. "Mightier than even I. And I shall spend every day proving to you that you are worthy of love."

Loki

- Loki was not a man who shied away from darkness. He had lived in its embrace, had let it carve itself into his soul, twisting and shifting until it was impossible to tell where the wounds ended and where he began. So when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way your breath hitched when hands moved too fast, he did not ask questions. He simply understood.

- He moved differently around you—not out of pity, but out of respect. His steps were quieter, his gestures slower, his voice a low, soothing thing instead of the sharp-edged blade it usually was. He never forced you to speak of your past, never pressed when he saw the weight in your eyes. He simply let you be, allowing you to come to him when you were ready.

- But Loki was still Loki, and he was vengeful in the way he loved you. He kept a careful tally of those who mistreated you, of those who so much as sneered at the pain you had endured. And when the moment was right, when their own sins came to collect, he ensured they suffered. He never told you, never admitted the reason for his sudden, pleased smirks—but the air always smelled of satisfaction after your ghosts disappeared.

- When nightmares curled their fingers around your throat, when sleep was stolen by memories of cruelty, he was there. He would whisper to you in languages older than time, his voice an anchor in the storm. And when you couldn’t bear to be held, he would simply sit beside you, a silent sentinel against the ghosts that dared haunt you.

- "They will never touch you again," he told you once, fingers tracing slow patterns along your wrist. "You belong to no one. No gods, no mortals, no past. You are yours, and I will burn the world before I let them steal even a whisper of you."

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint had never been one for loud spaces, had never been the type to fill silences just to hear himself speak. He noticed things—the way you tensed when voices rose, the way your hands clenched when something moved too fast, too sudden. He saw it all, but he never made you feel watched. Instead, he made sure you felt safe.

- He adapted without hesitation. Doors never slammed, footsteps never came without warning. When arguments brewed, he kept his voice steady, calm, even when frustration burned in his chest. He knew what it was like to grow up under a heavy hand, to flinch before the pain even came. And if he could make sure you never felt that way around him, he would.

- But God help anyone who reminded you of your past. Clint might not have been as openly vengeful as others, but he had his own ways of handling things. A carefully placed arrow, a reputation ruined in the right circles—silent, subtle, but effective. And when he returned home, when he climbed into bed beside you, he never told you what he had done. He just pulled you close, letting you rest against the steady rhythm of his heart.

- The first time he caught you in the grips of a panic attack, he didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to force you into comfort. He simply sat with you, close enough that you knew you weren’t alone, but never too close, never pushing. And when your breathing finally steadied, when the world no longer felt like it was closing in, he simply murmured, "Atta girl. I knew you’d find your way back."

- Clint wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with grand declarations—but in every action, in every careful movement, he told you what you meant to him. And when you doubted yourself, when the past clawed its way to the surface, he would only shake his head, lean in, and press a kiss to your temple. "You’re tougher than all of them," he’d whisper. "And I’ve got your back. Always."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha recognized the signs before you even knew she had noticed. The way you stiffened at the wrong tone, the way your body seemed to shrink in on itself at sudden movements. She had lived it—had felt it in every sharp order, every bruising lesson drilled into her bones. She didn’t need to ask. She just knew.

- She adjusted without hesitation. She never moved too quickly around you, never raised her voice when emotions ran high. If she was angry, she stepped away. If you were overwhelmed, she gave you space—but never too much. Just enough to breathe, just enough to know she was still there, waiting, steady.

- But when it came to those who had hurt you—those who had carved fear into your very skin—Natasha was not merciful. She did not believe in forgiveness, not for them. She was quiet in her vengeance, unseen and unknown, but when she returned, when she curled up beside you at night, there was a peace in her that hadn’t been there before. A satisfaction that told you she had made sure they would never haunt you again.

- She never pushed you to talk, never forced you to relive what had already scarred you. But when you were ready, when the words finally slipped from your lips in a trembling whisper, she listened. And when the silence stretched between you, heavy and raw, she simply reached out, tracing slow, deliberate circles against your wrist. "They don’t get to win," she said, voice steady. "You do. You already have."

- Natasha wasn’t one for flowery words or grand gestures, but she made sure you knew. Knew that you were safe, that you were hers, and that nothing—nothing—would ever touch you again. And in the quiet moments, when the past felt like a weight you couldn’t escape, she would press a kiss to your shoulder and whisper, "No one owns you anymore. No one ever will."

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knew trauma. Knew it like the back of his hand, like the weight of a metal limb that wasn’t his to choose. He saw it in you, saw the way your body locked up at the wrong sounds, the wrong movements. And he didn’t just understand it—he felt it. Deep in his bones, in the echoes of his own past.

- He was careful with you in a way he hadn’t been with anyone else. His movements were always slow, deliberate. He never reached for you unless you reached first. Never raised his voice, never let frustration color his tone when he knew it would hurt more than help. He knew how it felt to be afraid of something you couldn’t control, and he would be damned if he ever became one of those things for you.

- But Bucky was not a forgiving man when it came to those who had made you this way. He didn’t rage, didn’t storm—he simply acted. No words, no threats, just quiet, methodical destruction. And when he came back, when he curled his body around yours at night, he never told you what he had done. He just kissed your hair and whispered, "They won’t bother you anymore."

- When you woke up gasping from nightmares, when panic had its claws around your throat, Bucky didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed. He let you grip his shirt, let you shake in his arms until the storm passed. And when words finally found you, when you whispered apologies into his chest, he only shook his head and murmured, "You don’t have to say sorry. Not to me. Never to me."

- Bucky didn’t promise that the past wouldn’t hurt anymore—he knew better than that. But he did promise that you wouldn’t have to face it alone. That you would never be trapped in it again. And when the memories threatened to drown you, when the fear clawed its way back, he would hold you tighter and remind you, "You survived them. You beat them. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure they never touch you again."

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew was a man who carried his own ghosts. He understood pain, not just in theory but in the way it etched itself into bones, the way it lingered in the spaces between breaths. He didn’t need to see your wounds to know they were there—he could hear them in the tremor of your voice, feel them in the way your heartbeat stuttered when voices were raised. He never asked. He simply knew.

- He adjusted to you the way he adjusted to the city—effortlessly, instinctively. His movements became softer, more deliberate. He never reached for you without warning, never let his own temper boil over into something you might mistake for danger. Even when he was furious—when justice burned in his chest like a second heartbeat—he kept his voice steady, kept his presence calm. He refused to let anything make you feel unsafe.

- But Matt was not a man who tolerated cruelty. He had seen too much of it in his lifetime, and he would not abide it in yours. If there was anyone who still haunted you, anyone who had left scars on your soul, they would not last long in Hell’s Kitchen. The city had a way of swallowing people like that—of making them disappear in the dead of night. Matt never admitted to it, but the satisfaction in his silence told you all you needed to know.

- When nightmares clutched at you, when memories turned your breath ragged and your body rigid, Matt did not rush you. He did not drown you in empty reassurances. He simply stayed. His hands—calloused, steady—would find yours, grounding you. And when you could finally breathe again, when the world stopped spinning, he would murmur, "You’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me."

- Matthew did not offer false promises. He did not tell you that the past would stop hurting or that the fear would vanish overnight. But he did promise you this—that you were his, and no force in heaven or hell would ever harm you again. And when the city whispered threats in the dark, when shadows from your past tried to creep back in, he would remind them, in blood and bruises, that Daredevil does not forgive.

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank was not a man of gentle words. He was not soft, not delicate, but he was careful. With you, at least. The first time he saw you flinch at a raised voice, the first time you recoiled from a sudden movement, something in him snapped. He had known cruelty before, had spent his life hunting the kind of people who inflicted it. And he knew—without you ever telling him—that someone had hurt you. Badly.

- He never asked for details. Never pushed you to talk. If you wanted to tell him, you would. Until then, all he needed to know was that it would never happen again. The first time he heard the name of someone who had hurt you, he disappeared for three days. When he came back, there was blood on his knuckles and peace in his eyes. He never said a word about it, and you never asked.

- Frank wasn’t good with emotions, wasn’t good at comfort. But he was good at protecting. He noticed your triggers, memorized them like a soldier memorizes an enemy’s weakness. He never slammed doors, never moved too fast around you, never let his anger spill into something reckless. His rage was a weapon, and he wielded it with precision.

- He was your shield when you needed it, your anchor when the past threatened to pull you under. When you woke up shaking, when memories made your hands tremble, he would simply pull you into his chest, let your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt. And when words failed you, when all you could do was breathe through the fear, he would murmur, "Ain't nobody touchin’ you again. Not while I’m breathin’."

- Frank Castle was a monster to the world—a nightmare wrapped in flesh. But to you, he was something else entirely. A protector. A force of nature that stood between you and the demons of your past. And when ghosts tried to return, when the world thought it could hurt you again, Frank reminded them, in blood and fire, that The Punisher doesn’t forgive. And he doesn’t forget.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye was not a good man. He had never been a good man, and he never pretended otherwise. But when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way you anticipated pain before it ever came, something inside him twisted. He recognized that fear. He had been the one causing it most of his life. But he wasn’t them. He wasn’t the bastards who had hurt you. And he’d make damn sure you knew that.

- He changed for you—not in a way that made him soft, not in a way that stripped him of the sharp edges that made him him, but in a way that mattered. He learned your triggers, memorized them like a game he refused to lose. He didn’t raise his voice around you, didn’t move too fast unless he wanted you to see it coming. Control was everything to him, and he exercised it for you.

- But he was still Bullseye. Still sadistic, still twisted in the way he loved. He didn’t just hate the people who had hurt you—he hunted them. It wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t about morality. It was about fun. And there was nothing more satisfying than making monsters feel like prey. He never told you what he did, but the way he smirked when he came home, the way he wiped blood off his hands with a satisfied sigh—it was enough.

- He wasn’t good at comfort, wasn’t good at softness. But when you woke up shaking, when the past crawled up your throat like poison, he didn’t mock you. He didn’t push you away. He just pulled you into his lap, let you cling to him until the tremors stopped. And when you finally looked at him, vulnerable and raw, he would grin, tilt your chin up, and say, "I don’t care how broken you think you are, sweetheart. You’re still mine. And I take care of what’s mine."

- Bullseye was chaos incarnate, a storm with no mercy. But for you, he was something else. Still dangerous, still unpredictable—but yours. And if the past ever came knocking, if the people who had hurt you ever dared to crawl out of the shadows, they wouldn’t last long. Because Bullseye didn’t just protect what he loved—he destroyed anything that threatened it.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc was haunted long before he met you. He carried ghosts in his skin, blood on his hands. He was a man split in three, a storm constantly raging beneath the surface. But when he saw the fear in your eyes, the way you recoiled from sudden movement, something inside him settled. He knew pain when he saw it. And he knew how to handle it.

- He adapted instantly. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make any sudden movements around you unless he warned you first. He made sure you always knew it was him—whispered your name before entering a room, let you see his hands before reaching for you. He knew what it was like to live on edge, to always expect the worst. He would never be a source of that for you.

- But Marc was not a merciful man. When he learned the truth—when he learned about the people who had made you this way—his entire body stilled. And then, with a terrifying calm, he asked for names. He didn’t yell. He didn’t rage. He simply disappeared that night, and when he came back, there was no more past to haunt you. Only silence. Only peace.

- He didn’t push you to talk, didn’t force you to relive the worst of it. But when the pain overwhelmed you, when you woke up gasping for breath, he was there. He would hold you if you let him, would whisper reassurances against your hair. And when you finally settled, when your breathing evened out, he would kiss your temple and murmur, "They don’t get to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here."

- Marc Spector was a man of war, a man built for violence. But with you, he was something else. He was safety. He was home. And if the world ever tried to take that from you again, it would learn—painfully, brutally—that Moon Knight does not forgive. And he does not forget.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster had spent his life among the worst of humanity. He had trained murderers, killers, people who saw life as nothing more than a transaction. He didn’t consider himself a good man—never had, never would—but when he learned about what had been done to you, something in him twisted. He had never been one for justice, but vengeance? That, he understood. That, he thrived on.

- He noticed your triggers before you ever spoke about them. The way your breath hitched when someone raised their voice, the way your body tensed at sudden movements. He wasn’t the kind of man who asked questions—he didn’t need to. Instead, he adapted. His voice never rose around you, his movements became deliberate, controlled. The world saw him as unpredictable, but around you, he was calculated. He would never be something you feared.

- He was possessive, territorial in a way that most people would find terrifying. But with you, it was different. It wasn’t just about having you—it was about protecting you. When he found out who had hurt you, they simply ceased to exist. There was no spectacle, no grand revenge plan. Just silence. Just a quiet, efficient elimination. And when he returned to you, wiping blood off his gloves, all he said was, "They won’t bother you anymore."

- Taskmaster wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with comfort. But he was good at making sure you knew you were safe. When the nightmares hit, when memories turned your breath ragged, he wouldn’t drown you in reassurances. He’d simply pull you into his lap, let you press your face against his chest, his body a solid, unshakable presence against your trembling form. And when you could finally breathe again, he would murmur, "Ain't nobody touchin’ what’s mine. Not ever again."

- He was a weapon, a killer, a ghost that haunted the criminal underworld. But to you, he was something else. Not soft, not gentle—but yours. And if the world ever tried to touch you again, to drag you back into the hell you had escaped, Taskmaster would remind them—painfully, mercilessly—that Tony Masters does not forgive.

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny had never known real fear—not the kind that lived in bones, in breath, in the spaces between heartbeats. He had been reckless his entire life, unafraid, untouchable. But when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way your body froze when anger crackled too close, it hit him. Hard. You weren’t just sensitive. You had been hurt.

- He didn’t know how to deal with that at first. He was loud, animated, a storm of energy and fire. But for you, he learned to temper himself. He kept his voice light, playful, never sharp. He warned you before he moved too fast, before his hands reached for you. It wasn’t something he did consciously—he just wanted to make you feel safe.

- But Johnny was also angry. Not at you, never at you, but at the people who had made you this way. He wasn’t violent—not like some of the others in your life—but if he ever saw the ones who had hurt you, he wouldn’t hesitate to burn their lives to the ground. Not physically, maybe, but socially, financially? He’d ruin them with a smile, make sure they lost everything.

- He didn’t always know what to do when the past clawed at you, when memories turned your nights into something unbearable. But he stayed. He cracked stupid jokes, let you curl into his warmth, let his fire chase away the cold that lingered in your bones. And when words failed him, when all he could do was be there, he would press a kiss to your forehead and whisper, "You got me, babe. You’ll always have me."

- Johnny was reckless, wild, untamed. But when it came to you, he was something else. Steady. Safe. And if anyone thought they could hurt you again, if the past ever came crawling back, they would learn the hard way that the Human Torch burns hotter than any hell they’ve ever known.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed was a man of logic, of science, of equations and solutions. But there was no equation for the way your breath hitched at loud voices, no formula for the way your body braced for impact when someone moved too quickly. He noticed it all, memorized the patterns, the reactions. And it wrecked him to realize why.

- He approached it the way he approached everything else—with patience, with precision. He never made you feel like an experiment, never made you feel studied. But he adapted. His voice never rose in anger, his movements were controlled, calculated. If he noticed you shrinking away, he would slow, give you space. He would never be something you feared.

- But Reed was also furious. He wasn’t a violent man, wasn’t someone who solved problems with fists or fire. But he was powerful. And when he found out who had hurt you, he destroyed them in the way only he could—legally, financially, socially. They lost their jobs, their reputations, their entire existences. And it was done so subtly, so flawlessly, that they never even knew why their world was falling apart.

- He wasn’t always good with emotions, wasn’t always good at comfort. But when you broke, when the past pulled you under, he was there. He held you, let you cling to him, let you find solace in his steady, unwavering presence. And when the worst of it passed, when you could finally breathe again, he would cup your face in his hands and whisper, "You are not alone. You never will be again."

- Reed Richards was a scientist, a genius, a man who could reshape reality itself. But for you, he was something even greater. He was yours. And if the world ever tried to hurt you again, he would remind them—quietly, ruthlessly—that there is no escape from the mind of Mr. Fantastic.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm had seen the worst of the world. He had felt the sting of rejection, the ache of knowing that no matter how much good he did, there would always be people who saw him as a monster. So when he learned about your past, when he realized the weight you carried, it wasn’t anger that filled him—not at you, never at you—but at the people who had made you this way. The people who had hurt you, who had made you flinch at loud voices and sudden movements, who had made you believe that love was something you had to earn.

- Ben was big—he knew that. He knew his size, his strength, could be intimidating. And so he was careful with you in ways most people wouldn’t expect. His movements around you were slower, more deliberate. He never raised his voice, never let frustration slip into his tone. If he ever had to yell, if the world pushed him to the point of shouting, he always made sure you weren’t in earshot. Because the last thing he ever wanted was to make you afraid of him.

- When the nightmares came, when the past wrapped its claws around your throat and dragged you back into the darkness, Ben was there. He didn’t say much—he knew words weren’t always enough—but he was steady. A wall of warmth and strength that you could lean against, could hide behind, could trust. And when the worst of it had passed, when you were left shaking and breathless, he would squeeze your hand and murmur, "Ain't nothin’ gonna hurt ya no more, sweetheart. Not while I’m here."

- But Ben was also fierce in his love. If he ever saw the people who had hurt you, if he ever had the chance to make them understand the damage they had done, he wouldn’t hesitate. He wasn’t a cruel man, wasn’t one for vengeance—but for you, for the love of his life, he would make an exception. They would know fear. They would pay. And if you ever worried about what he had done, about how far he was willing to go for you, he would simply shake his head and say, "Some people don’t deserve a second chance, doll. Some people just deserve a reminder of what it means to be small."

- Ben Grimm had been turned into a monster, but he had never been one. And when it came to you, when it came to keeping you safe, he was something else. A fortress. A protector. A love so unwavering it could withstand anything. And if the world ever tried to take you from him, if the past ever tried to claim you again, it would learn—The Thing doesn’t break. And he doesn’t let go.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan had always been a shield, always been the one to stand between the people she loved and the things that threatened them. But when she learned about your past, when she realized the depth of your pain, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—rage. Not the kind that burned hot and fast, not the kind that exploded outward, but the kind that simmered deep, the kind that settled into her bones and waited.

- She was gentle with you. Not because she thought you were fragile—no, she had seen your strength, had felt the resilience in your touch—but because she knew what it was like to carry a weight you couldn’t always put into words. She never pushed, never pried. But she watched. She learned your triggers, learned the small signs that meant you needed space or, conversely, that you needed her. And when you needed her, she was there—always.

- But Susan was not just a shield. She was also a weapon. And when she found out about the people who had hurt you, she didn’t hesitate. She erased them from your life, not just physically, but completely. She made sure they could never reach you again, never so much as whisper your name. She would never tell you what she had done—you had suffered enough. But if you ever asked, if you ever needed to know, she would take your hands in hers, look you in the eye, and say, "You never have to be afraid again."

- But beyond the protection, beyond the quiet, careful ways she ensured your safety, Susan loved you. And her love was soft. It was hands in your hair, arms wrapped around you in the quiet of the night. It was whispered reassurances, gentle smiles, the kind of tenderness that never asked for anything in return. She made you feel seen, made you feel wanted in a way you never had before. And if you ever doubted it, if the echoes of your past made you question your worth, she would cup your face in her hands and remind you—"You are not what they made you. You are mine."

- Susan Storm was many things. A hero, a leader, a woman who had faced more than most could ever understand. But when it came to you, she was something else. Unbreakable. Fierce. Yours. And if the past ever tried to take you from her, if the people who had hurt you ever resurfaced, they would learn the hard way that The Invisible Woman sees everything—and she does not forgive.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia had spent her life slipping through the cracks of the world, always one step ahead, always dancing between the lines of hero and villain. But with you, there was no game, no mask. When she learned about your past, when she saw the way you shrank from anger, the way your breath hitched at the wrong tone, something inside her snapped. Because she had spent her whole life taking from people—stealing from them—but you? You had only ever had things stolen from you. And that? That wasn’t something she could forgive.

- She didn’t change who she was, didn’t suddenly become soft and delicate. But she became careful. Her teasing turned more mindful, her touches more deliberate. She never made a move without your permission, never touched you unless she knew you wanted her to. And if you ever flinched, ever winced at something unintentional, she would stop in her tracks, hold her hands up, and wait. Not with impatience, not with frustration, but with the unwavering promise that she would always let you set the pace.

- But Felicia was still Felicia. And when she found out about the people who had hurt you, she hunted. Not for money, not for jewels, but for revenge. She made their lives hell, made them feel small. She didn’t kill—not because she wasn’t willing, but because she knew that some punishments were worse than death. When she was done, they were nothing. Just ghosts of the monsters they had once been. And if you ever asked, if you ever wondered why you never heard from them again, she would smirk and purr, "Oh, kitten, let’s just say karma has very sharp claws."

- But for all her fire, for all her wild, reckless energy, Felicia loved you in a way that was startlingly soft. It was the way she curled against you at night, the way she brushed her fingers through your hair absentmindedly, the way she looked at you like you were the most valuable thing in the world. And for someone who had spent her life chasing the thrill of the steal, she found that nothing compared to the way you whispered her name in the quiet.

- Felicia Hardy was not a hero. She was not safe, she was not predictable. But when it came to you, she was something else entirely. Devoted. Fierce. Unrelenting. And if the past ever tried to take you from her, if anyone dared to hurt you again, they would learn—The Black Cat does not share. And she never lets go.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen was not a man easily shaken. He had seen horrors beyond imagination, had faced gods and monsters and lived to tell the tale. But when he saw the way you flinched at anger, the way your breath came too fast at sudden movement, he felt something inside him break. This? This was worse than any magic, worse than any curse. Because this was something human.

- He was not naturally gentle—not in the way others were. He was sharp, impatient, his mind always ten steps ahead. But with you, he learned. He softened his voice, measured his tone. He let you see his hands before he touched you, let you know where he was before he moved. He was deliberate in his care, never careless, never reckless.

- But he was also merciless. He did not tolerate those who harmed the innocent, and when he found out about your past, about the people who had made you this way—he acted. Not with violence, not with rage, but with something worse. A quiet, inescapable curse. A twist of fate that ensured they would never hurt anyone again.

- He wasn’t always great with comfort, wasn’t always great with words. But when the past gripped you too tightly, when you couldn’t breathe through the weight of it, he did what he did best—he protected. He cast wards around your mind, spells to soothe your fear. And when even magic wasn’t enough, he simply held you, his voice low and certain as he murmured, "You are safe. You are mine. And nothing will ever hurt you again."

- Stephen Strange was a sorcerer, a man who wielded the very fabric of the universe. But for you, he was something simpler—home. And if anyone thought they could take that from you, if the past ever dared to reclaim you, they would learn, in the most painful of ways, that Doctor Strange does not give second chances.

Namor

- Namor was not a gentle man. He was the ocean itself—vast, untamed, merciless when necessary. But when he learned of your past, when he realized the horrors you had endured at the hands of those who should have protected you, something inside him darkened. He had always known the cruelty of the surface world, had witnessed the rot that festered in its people, but to know that you—his beloved—had suffered beneath their hands? It ignited a rage deeper than the Mariana Trench.

- Yet, despite his nature, despite his storms, Namor was careful with you. He had never been one to temper himself for anyone, had never felt the need to soften his edges. But with you, he became something else. His voice, once sharp as the tridents he wielded, became measured in your presence. He moved with intention, never sudden, never careless. And if you flinched—if the ghosts of your past tried to drag you back—his hands would hover near but never touch, his eyes searching yours, waiting for permission. For you to reach for him.

- He did not speak empty reassurances, did not offer hollow words of comfort. Instead, he made promises. Promises backed by the weight of his throne, by the power of Atlantis itself. "No one will ever harm you again," he vowed, his voice like the tides—endless, absolute. "Not while I breathe. Not while I reign." And Namor was not a man who broke his vows. If he ever saw the ones who had hurt you, if they still drew breath, he would ensure that breath was stolen from their lungs, swallowed by the sea itself.

- But love with Namor was not only protection; it was devotion. It was the way he brought you to Atlantis, let you stand beside him, let the world see that you were his. It was the way he lifted you above even his own people, a mortal among gods, and dared anyone to question your place by his side. And when nightmares clawed at your mind, when fear crept into your bones, he would hold you—truly hold you, as if anchoring you to the present, reminding you that you were safe. That you were his.

- Namor was not a gentle man. But for you, he became something he had never been before. Patient. Steady. And if the past ever tried to reclaim you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, he would remind the world—The ocean does not forget. And it does not forgive.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny had been to hell and back—literally. He had seen damnation, had felt the weight of chains, the burn of brimstone. But none of it compared to the rage that ignited in his chest when he learned what had been done to you. You didn’t have the scars he did, not the kind that burned in the shape of a demon’s touch, but you had scars all the same—ones that ran deep, ones that made you flinch at raised voices and sudden movements. And for that, he would never forgive the world.

- He was rough around the edges, hardened by a life that had never been kind. But around you, he softened—not in a way that made him weak, but in a way that made you safe. His voice never rose in anger, his hands never moved too fast. He always made sure you knew where he was before he touched you, always gave you the space to come to him. He wasn’t a gentle man, but for you, he learned to be careful.

- But Johnny was also vengeful. He didn’t believe in letting monsters walk free. When he found out who had hurt you, the Ghost Rider stirred in his chest, the flames of vengeance licking at his bones. He never told you what happened to them—only that they were gone, their souls left to answer for what they had done. And if the nightmares still came, if the past still clawed at you, he would pull you against him, let the warmth of his fire chase away the cold.

- He wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with comfort. But when your breath hitched in fear, when memories turned your nights into something unbearable, he was there. He let you cling to him, let you bury your face in his chest, his arms steady and strong around you. And when the worst of it passed, when the ghosts of your past finally loosened their grip, he would press a kiss to your hair and murmur, "Ain't nobody hurtin’ you again. Not while I’m around."

- Johnny Blaze had been cursed, had been broken, had been forced to walk through hell itself. But when it came to you, he was something else. Steady. Safe. And if the past ever came for you again, if the people who had hurt you ever dared to resurface, they would learn—painfully, mercilessly—that the Ghost Rider does not forgive.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie had never trusted the world. It had chewed him up, spit him out, left him hollow and angry. But when he met you, when he saw the way you carried yourself—beautiful, but always guarded—he recognized the same war in your eyes. And when he learned why, when he pieced together the way you flinched at raised voices, the way you braced for impact at sudden movement, something inside him snapped.

- Venom reacted first, a growl rumbling from deep within his chest, a protective rage Eddie had never quite felt before. "Who hurt her?" the symbiote demanded, its voice a low, dangerous snarl in his mind. And Eddie, for once, didn’t try to hold Venom back. Because for the first time in his life, he had something worth protecting.

- Eddie wasn’t a good man. He had tried to be once, had tried to play by the rules, but the world had beaten that out of him. And when it came to you, when it came to them, the ones who had hurt you—there were no rules. He never told you what he did, never let you see the mess he made of them. But he came back to you with blood on his hands and nothing but gentleness in his touch.

- Venom became your shadow, an unseen protector that never strayed far. "We will keep you safe," the symbiote would whisper to you in the dead of night, its voice low and almost affectionate. Eddie wasn’t much better—he was obsessive in his care, possessive in the way he made sure you always knew you were his. Not in a way that suffocated, but in a way that promised—no one will ever hurt you again.

- Eddie Brock was not a hero. He was not kind, not merciful. But for you? He was yours. And if the world ever thought to take you from him, to drag you back into the darkness you had escaped, it would learn the hard way that Venom does not share.

T'Challa (Black Panther)

- T'Challa had spent his life protecting his people, had spent years ensuring that no harm befell Wakanda. But when he learned of your past, of the pain you had suffered, it was the first time he had ever felt helpless. Because this was a war that had already been fought, a battle whose scars could not be undone. And for all his knowledge, all his power, he could not rewrite history. He could only stand beside you in its aftermath and swear that you would never face such suffering again.

- He was a man of control, of precision, but around you, he became something softer. His movements were measured, his tone always gentle. He never raised his voice near you—not in anger, not in command—because he had seen the way sharp tones made your breath catch, had felt the way sudden movements made you stiffen. And T'Challa was not a man who ignored the unspoken. He adapted, not out of obligation, but because he loved you. And love, to him, meant understanding.

- But there was also fire in his love. A quiet, unshakable wrath that burned beneath his skin when he thought of those who had hurt you. He did not believe in cruelty, did not believe in striking down those who were weak. But if your abusers still lived, still walked, he would make certain they never did so again. Not through violence, not through blood—no, T’Challa was smarter than that. He would dismantle their lives piece by piece, until they had nothing. Until they felt, for the first time, what it meant to be powerless.

- But his vengeance was not the weight he placed on your shoulders. With you, he was light. His love was the kind that wrapped around you in quiet moments, the kind that whispered through fingertips grazing your skin, through the warmth of his presence beside you. He did not try to fix what had been broken—he simply stood beside you, unwavering. And when the nights were long, when the memories clawed at your mind, he would hold you against his chest and murmur, "You are not alone. You will never be alone again."

- T’Challa was a king. A warrior. A man who bore the weight of a nation on his shoulders. But when it came to you, he was something else entirely. A protector. A lover. A promise. And if the past ever tried to take you from him, if the shadows of your childhood ever threatened to return, he would remind the world—The Black Panther does not bow. And he does not forget.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra had never believed in softness. Her world had been carved from blood, from betrayal, from the understanding that love was often just another weapon waiting to be used against you. But with you, everything changed. Because when she learned of your past, when she realized the depths of the pain you had endured, it was the first time in her life that she wanted to protect something—not for duty, not for advantage, but for love.

- She was sharp edges and honed steel, but for you, she became something different. She learned your triggers, memorized them like she would a target’s weaknesses. She moved differently around you—not with hesitation, but with intent. She never raised her voice, never made a move she knew would unsettle you. And if you ever flinched, if the ghosts of your childhood ever tried to pull you back, she would wait. Not with frustration, not with pity, but with the steady patience of a woman who had spent her life navigating war zones.

- But Elektra was still Elektra. And if she ever saw the people who had hurt you, they would cease to exist. Not metaphorically. Not in some abstract, distant way. She would erase them from the world, make them disappear in the only way she knew how. And she would never tell you. Because she knew you—knew that despite everything, there was still goodness in you, still kindness that the world had not managed to steal. And she would not let her darkness stain that.

- But her love was not just vengeance. It was fierce devotion, the kind that bound itself to your bones and refused to let go. She did not whisper reassurances, did not offer empty comfort. Instead, she showed you. In the way she stood between you and the world, in the way she let her guard down in your presence, in the way she let you touch her scars—both the ones on her skin and the ones hidden deeper. With you, she was not the assassin, not the warrior. She was simply yours.

- Elektra did not believe in softness. But for you, she learned. And if the past ever tried to take you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, she would ensure one thing—The world may have failed you once. But it will never touch you again.

Muse

- Muse was not a man of warmth, nor was he a man of comfort. He was a creature of chaos, an artist who carved beauty from suffering, who found divinity in destruction. Yet, when he learned of your past, when the remnants of your childhood bled into the present, he did not respond with words—Muse was never a man of words. Instead, he listened, in his own twisted way, tilting his head like a predator considering its prey. Not out of cruelty, not out of disinterest, but because he was fascinated—not by your pain, but by you. By the fact that you had endured.

- His movements, normally erratic and unpredictable, shifted in your presence. He never made sudden gestures near you, never raised his voice—though his voice was never loud to begin with. And though he lacked the morality most others possessed, he understood something primal about fear, about trauma. He had seen it in the eyes of those who had stared too long into the abyss before he ended them. And so, when your past clawed at your mind, when memories threatened to drown you, Muse would simply be there—unmoving, silent, an ever-present shadow beside you.

- But Muse was still Muse. And when he realized the ones who had hurt you were still out there, still breathing, he could not fathom why you had let them live. You may have been content to let the past remain buried, but he was not. He was an artist, and what better canvas than the flesh of those who had dared to break what was his? He never told you what he did. Never let you see the grotesque poetry he left behind. But if your abusers began disappearing, one by one, if whispers of horrors filled the underworld, you would know. And Muse? He would only tilt his head and smile.

- But it was not only destruction that defined his love—it was obsession. The way his fingers would trace your features, as if memorizing every inch of you, as if you were the only masterpiece worth preserving. The way he would sit in silence, sketching, painting, creating you over and over again as if he could capture you, keep you forever. The way he would stare—unblinking, unwavering—not with judgment, not with pity, but with a reverence so deep it was almost worship.

- Muse did not love like others. His love was twisted, fractured, something neither holy nor entirely damned. But in his own way, he was constant. And if the past ever tried to take you, if the shadows of your childhood ever reached for you again, he would remind the world—Pain is temporary. But art? Art is eternal.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom did not tolerate weakness—not in himself, not in others. But when he learned of your past, when he saw the way you flinched at anger, the way fear flickered in your eyes at the wrong tone, he did not see weakness. He saw injustice. And Doom did not tolerate injustice.

- He did not ask questions—he did not need to. The knowledge of what had been done to you came to him through his own means, through whispers and shadows. And once he knew, once he understood, he acted with the precision of a man who had never allowed an insult to go unanswered. The ones who had hurt you ceased to exist—not just physically, but entirely. Their names were erased, their legacies burned, their very existence reduced to nothing.

- Doom was not a man of softness, but with you, he was something close. His voice never rose in your presence, his movements were deliberate, measured. He did not comfort—he protected. He ensured you were untouchable, invulnerable. He built walls around you, not to keep you in, but to keep the world out. And if that meant drenching the earth in blood, so be it.

- He was not affectionate in the way others were. He did not whisper reassurances, did not soothe with words. But when you trembled, when memories wrapped around your throat like chains, he was there. He would tilt your chin up, force you to meet his gaze, and state—simply, factually—"You are Doom’s. And Doom does not allow his to suffer."

- Victor von Doom was a tyrant, a ruler, a man feared by nations. But when it came to you, he was something else. A shield. A weapon. A god. And if anyone, anyone, thought to take what was his, they would learn—painfully, excruciatingly—that Doom does not forgive.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter had spent his life running—from responsibility, from the past, from the weight of loss. But he couldn’t run from this. He couldn’t run from the way you flinched at sudden movement, the way your breath hitched when voices rose too loud. And when he learned why—when he learned what had been done to you—his usual easygoing demeanor cracked.

- He wasn’t like the others—he wasn’t ruthless, wasn’t cruel. But he was protective. And when he found out about the people who had hurt you, he didn’t let it go. He didn’t let them go. He wasn’t a killer, not by nature, but for you? He would make an exception. He didn’t tell you what happened—only that they wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

- Peter wasn’t always great at dealing with feelings. He was better with jokes, with distractions. But he was attentive. If he saw the past creeping up on you, if he saw the way your hands trembled, he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t pry. He’d just pull you into some ridiculous adventure, make you laugh until you forgot, if only for a moment, that the past even existed.

- And when that wasn’t enough, when the weight of it all settled too heavily on your shoulders, he would hold you. No words, no reassurances—just warmth, just presence. And when you finally pulled away, when the worst of it had passed, he would grin and say, "Y’know, babe, I don’t say this lightly, but… if you ever need someone to be space dust, I got your back."

- Peter Quill was not perfect. He was reckless, immature, sometimes a little too much. But for you, he was something else. He was home. And if the past ever came knocking, if the people who had hurt you ever thought to reclaim you, they would learn that Star-Lord never lets go of what’s his.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider had seen suffering. He had seen entire planets crumble, had watched as entire civilizations were snuffed out like dying embers. But when he learned of your pain, of the horrors you had endured at the hands of those who should have loved you, it was different. Because this wasn’t war, wasn’t some inevitable cosmic tragedy—this was personal. This was something that had been done to you, something that had shaped the person he loved. And he didn’t know how to handle that.

- He had always been brash, reckless, loud—but for you, he tried. He learned not to raise his voice around you, even when frustration burned in his throat. He learned to move slower, to be gentle, even when every instinct told him to rush in, to act. And when you flinched—when old wounds resurfaced and you expected anger, expected punishment—he would stop, hands raised, eyes wide with something raw. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here. No one's gonna hurt you. Not ever again." And he meant it.

- But Nova had never been good at stillness. He needed action, needed to do something. And the knowledge that the people who had hurt you were still out there? It ate at him. He wasn't like Daredevil, wasn't some brooding vigilante lurking in the shadows—he was Nova. And that meant he could go anywhere. It meant that if he ever found them, if he ever got so much as a whisper of their location, he would ensure they never so much as breathed in your direction again. He wouldn’t kill them—he wasn’t that kind of man—but he would make damn sure they wished he had.

- But love with Richard was not only protection—it was light. It was the way he made you laugh, the way he insisted on making you laugh, even when the weight of your past threatened to pull you under. It was the way he wrapped you in his arms, warm and solid, a barrier between you and the rest of the universe. It was the way he kissed you—soft when you needed gentleness, fierce when he needed to remind you that you were here, that you were his, that you were alive.

- Richard Rider had seen entire worlds burn. But he had never fought for anything as fiercely as he fought for you. And if the past ever tried to reclaim you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, he would remind the universe—There’s not a single star out there worth more than the person I love. And I will tear the cosmos apart before I let them suffer again.

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michelleleewise · 4 months ago

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Fire and Ash...

A Long Live The King Tale

Pairing: King Jotun Loki × Asgardian female reader

Warnings: there shall be angst here, not so much this time though, self doubt, accusations, political drama, self esteem issues, breastfeeding. I think that's it, if I missed anything let me know.

Summary: you hoped the birth of your son would bring you and Loki closer together, but as he continues to pull away you know he's hiding something from you.

A/n- I'm a bit rusty with all of this, be gentle 😁💚

Part one ~ Part two-

You rolled to your side gripping your stomach, your eyes shooting open as your incision throbbed. "Norns!" You whisper yelled hearing someone coming towards you. "My lady, do you need something for the pain?" You heard, looking up seeing Norendra standing over you, concern lacing her face "y...yes, please, this is....unbearable." You gritted trying to breath through the pain. "I'll be right back my lady." She said with a soft smile before hurrying off.

As she left a soft coo sounded from the corner of the room, turning your head you saw Loki, dressed every bit the king he was, in his long flowing forest green cape, and his perfectly fitted tunic and leather pants sitting straight up "does he ever relax?" You whispered as your eyes traveled up seeing his head slumped forward, when a small green bundle held firmly in his arms moved catching your attention making you look down into his lap. "Vali." You whispered, smiling see his full head of black hair, his bright azure skin glowing under the soft candle light.

"Alright my lady, I have something for the pain." You heard, unable to pull your eyes away from Loki and your son "how long has he been here?" You asked feeling a tear escape your eye traveling to your hair "the king has been here since you slept my lady." She said making your head snap to look at her "he hasn't left?" You asked scrunching your eyebrows together "no my lady, not once." She said uncorking a small glass vial "now drink this, it will help." Noreandra said holding the bottle out to you "thank the norns, you are an angel." You said grabbing it, downing it all on one gulp. "Good, now rest you will need your strength." She said taking the bottle from you. "Thank you norendra." You said looking back to the two most important people in your life "it is my pleasure my lady." You heard her say as your eye lids began to droop, feeling sleep begin to take you "I love you....both of you." You sighed as your eyes closed, sleep taking you away.

One month later-

You rolled to your back, the soft cries from the other side of the room pulling you from your sleep "loki...would you..." you trailed off reaching your hand out to find the bed empty, the sheets cold telling you he had been gone for quite some time. "Loki." You called out slowly sitting up as the cries became louder. "Alright little one, I'm awake." You sighed rubbing your eyes you pulled the furs back swinging your legs over the side. Standing up you shuffled across the room peeking into the crib "vali dear what's wrong?" You cooed rubbing his belly when his small crimson eyes opened looking up at you full of tears. "Come here sweet boy." You cooed gently picking him up you cradled him in your arms rocking him back and forth.

Is someone hungry?" You asked hearing him whimper "ok, let mommy get settled." You said taking a seat in the chair by the fire when you heard a knock on the door "come in." You called out when Alrik came in holding a tray "I have brought you breakfast my queen." He said setting the tray on the bed "is everything alright?" He asked looking you over "yes, he's just hungry...would you hand me that?" You asked pointing to a small green blanket on the bed. He walked over picking it up holding it out to you "I can go if you wish." He said as you draped the blanket over your shoulder "no...please stay." You said looking up at him seeing him smile "very well." He said taking a seat on the bed.

The two of you sat in silence as you helped vali get settled "where is he?" You asked plainly, looking up seeing Alrik looking everywhere but you "he is with king Thor in the throne room my queen." He said making you sigh "well, atleast he's here I suppose." You said when Alrik's head snapped to you "he hasn't spoken to you has he?" He asked fidgeting with his tunic "about what Alrik?" You asked furrowing your eyebrows "it's not my place to say my queen, you must ask him." He said looking down. "Well when will he be done with thor?" You asked seeing him squirm "they have had a bit to drink, the king is rather full at the moment so I am unsure." He said looking up at you "unacceptable." You said standing up, pulling little Vali from under the blanket "here, burp him and I shall return in a moment." You said gently handing your son to Alrik "i....I am unsure..." He said hesitantly cradling your sons head in his large hand

"It's easy, here I'll show you." You smiled positioning Vali on his chest, his head resting on his shoulder "now gently pat his back, ill be right back." You said as Alrik nodded. You walked to the wardrobe seeing every shade of green imaginable, smiling at the memory "a queen must wear her kings colors my love." He had said winking before pulling you into a deep kiss. "That feels like an eternity ago." You sighed, running your fingers across the silk and lace, remembering how things were when you first returned to jotunhiem after the battle with odin. "Why have things changed Loki?" You whispered feeling resentment begin to fill you "well If you can disregard me, I can do the same." You said pushing aside all the green seeing a deep purple velvet dress with fur accents you had had made shortly after your return "perfect." You said smiling, slipping it over your head you looked in the mirror seeing it still fit perfectly, your eyes traveling to your hair seeing it a mess "well that won't do." You said grabbing Loki's brush off the vanity you did your best to make yourself look presentable.

"Well, that's as good as it's going to get I think." You said tossing the brush down walking out seeing Vali asleep on Alrik's shoulder "well, how do I look?" You asked holding your arms out "stunning as always my queen." He said smiling "flattery will get you everywhere." You said hearing him laugh. "I'm off to bring the king back, by whatever means necessary." You said putting your fur slippers on Alrik had made you "a...are you sure? It may be unwise to..." He trailed off as you glared at him "yes my queen, I shall stay here with the little one." He said settling back "thank you Alrik, wish me luck." You said walking to the door "he is the one who needs the luck." You heard him say as you walked out gently closing the door behind you "a force indeed." He said gently rocking Vali hearing him coo "I believe your daddy may not survive this night." He said hearing a soft giggle come from the sleeping babe.

You stormed towards the throne room, anger building in you with every step you took. "If he does not want me here, he is going to tell me." You said to yourself coming up to the huge wooden double doors when two guards stopped you "I'm sorry my lady, but the king is entertaining king Thor at the moment." They said standing in front of you "You will let me in, that is not a request." You said standing firm. "We have orders not to let anyone in my lady." The other one said as you looked between them. "As your queen, I demand you move." You said as the other leaned down "the king has not married you, and even if he had, you are no queen of ours." He said standing back up as you took a step back "I beg your pardon!" You yelled seeing the other guard jump "You may have given the king an heir, but that does not make you a queen, it makes you a harlot." The other one said as you stood speechless.

"I swear to the norns, if you do not open that door you will see Valhalla tonight!" You yelled stepping forward when the doors flew open "what is going on out here?" You heard, looking down seeing Loki standing behind the guards, his hair disheveled and his tunic loosened at the top "your moronic guards refuse to let me in." You said crossing your arms "what did you need y/n? I am quite busy." Loki said looking you up and down "drinking with thor does not constitute you being busy." You said seeing the guards look at ecahother "come inside, I will not discuss this in front of my men." He said stepping aside. "Yes, wouldn't want them knowing how much of a lush their king is." You snarked feeling his hand grab your elbow "y/n. Inside." He said pulling you in slamming the doors behind him. "What is the meaning of this?" He asked turning back to you.

"Well, your son woke me up, and to my surprise my....I don't even know what we are....was not in bed with me." You said waving your arms. "I am your king." He said matter of factly crossing his arms "but what more then that?!" You yelled pacing back and forth "You have not married me, you avoid me at every opportunity, you clearly aren't sleeping in bed with me, and you haven't touched me in months!" You yelled as Loki grabbed your shoulder "y/n. Keep it down, others do not..." He started when you pushed him off "do not what? Need to hear that I am merely a bed warmer? A nanny for your heir?" You asked feeling tears well in your eyes "no! Of course not, I love you." Loki said taking a step towards you. "Then why are you avoiding me Loki, what is happening to us?" You said feeling a tear slide down your cheek.

"Have you found another who is more suitable?" You asked as Loki grabbed your shoulders again "that is preposterous, no one can compare to you my queen." He said looking into your eyes, the bright rubies as beautiful as the first day you saw them "then what is going on?" You asked hearing him sigh. "I am sorry I have not been as attentive as I should be as of late, there is something I need to discuss with you which in honesty I've been avoiding." He said sliding his hands down your arms.

"Discuss what with me Loki? Talk to me please!" You pleaded watching him look to the ground. "Y/n, i..." Loki started looking into your eyes when a large bang sounded from further in the room "brother! Are we not celebrating anymore?" A loud booming voice yelled, turning seeing Thor leaned back in a chair, his leg propped on the table in front of him. "Not now thor!" Loki yelled as you turned back to him. "Celebrating what?" You asked as he shifted back and forth. "I do not wish to discuss it now y/n, we will speak later when I return to our chamber." Loki said walking to the door "Loki, if you do not wish me here I will leave." You said crossing your arms as his head snapped back to you "I have never said I don't want you here love." He said, his eyes softening as you walked towards the door.

"My king, I will not continue this charade...your men do not repsrect me, you do not seem to desire me anymore, and you spend more time with Thor then you do me." You sighed grabbing the handle of the door "y/n, my love let me explain." He said as you put your hand up "I will be expecting you in our chambers within the hour, and you will tell me what you aren't." You said opened the door "You must decide what it is you truly want Loki, and if it isn't I and your son then let me go." You said feeling tears building In your eyes "y/n, please..." He said taking a step towards you "we will talk withing the hour Loki." You said gently placing your hand on his chest, your finger tips feeling his heart racing "go deal with thor, ill be expecting you." You said quickly turning and walking out of the throne room.

You headed towards your chambers ringing your hands together "what if he doesn't choose us..." You said to yourself looking down the hall, the walls draped with tapestries of history long past "what if I am not enough for him?" You said making it to the door of your chambers "what shall we do vali?" You whispered closing your eyes you opened the door, walking inside you crossed the room, slowly peeking into the bed chamber seeing Alrik asleep holding vali tightly in his hands, soft snores coming from both of them. Smiling you quietly closed the door, sighing as you walked towards the fire, sitting on the chaise you once called your bed you looked into the fire dreading the conversation that you were about to have. "Better to know now I suppose." You said sitting back waiting for what was to come.....

@loz-3 @mochie85 @vbecker10 @jaidenhawke @crimson25 @mjsthrillernp @realmamabear79 @cabingrlandrandomcrap @libby-bibby @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @aniar4wniak @vileepponine @thegodofnotknowing @gruftiela @irishhappiness @prettymandy @emarich7 @buttercupcookies-blog @janineb86 @kittenhawkk @lovingchoices14 @dangerousblizzarddreamer @kathren1sky-blog @wolfsmom1 @kikster606 @francescaanoya @godofstoriesandtime-rp @sinsandguilt

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cleo-fox · 2 years ago

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Movie Night

Summary: You’re not really sure why Loki shows up for your movie nights. He never seems to like the movies, even when he picks them, and every movie you watch together is accompanied by a litany of dry complaints and general sarcasm from him. This is partly why it always ends up being just the two of you—the others don’t have the patience to put up with it. You generally think it’s funny, so you’ve never rescinded his invitation.

That and…you kind of have a thing for him.

Pairing: Loki/Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, couch sex, quiet sex, praise kink, friends to lovers, making out, vaginal fingering, semi-public sex, praise kink.

A/N: I’m working on cross posting all my stuff from AO3. I wrote this a little while ago in an effort to address some writer’s block (it didn’t work, but I had fun writing it). This is also on AO3.

You’re not really sure why Loki shows up for your movie nights. He never seems to like the movies, even when he picks them, and every movie you watch together is accompanied by a litany of dry complaints and general sarcasm from him. This is partly why it always ends up being just the two of you—the others don’t have the patience to put up with it. You generally think it’s funny, so you’ve never rescinded his invitation.

That and you’ve got a little bit of a thing for him. You think he might have some interest in you, but you’re not certain enough to make the first move.

You look forward to your movie nights, but when this particular Friday night rolls around, you’re absolutely dragging by the time the clock strikes eight, thanks to a bad night of sleep the previous evening. Before the movie even starts, you’re wrapping yourself in the soft throw from your room and curling up, pillowing your head on the arm of the couch.

“I didn’t realize I would have such riveting company this evening,” says Loki dryly.

You roll your eyes and stretch obnoxiously, purposely shoving your feet into his lap. “I was up ‘til three this morning, give me a break.”

“Surely you need your full wits about you to appreciate the nuance of this fine cinema.”

He’s being sarcastic; you decide to ignore it because that will annoy him the most. You stifle a yawn and give him your most beatific smile before hunkering back down under your blanket. Loki grumbles something indeterminate, but he doesn’t shove your feet off his lap—in fact, he drapes his arm over your ankles like it’s not a big deal at all.

This simple gesture warms you from the inside out and sends a flurry of butterflies fluttering through your stomach. You are pretty sure nothing is going to come of it—stuff like this has been going on for months and nothing has happened—but it’s still nice. You have no idea what it means, but it’s nice.

You’re not entirely surprised that you fall asleep during the movie—you are tired and while you don’t necessarily want to admit that any of Loki’s cinematic complaints have merit, the movie really wasn’t very good. Between that and your cozy blanket, it’s a recipe for an unintentional nap.

It’s dark when you wake up. You don’t really remember falling asleep, though you think it must have been about halfway through the film, based on the last hazy bit of dialogue you can recall.

You certainly don’t remember Loki sliding over on the couch to join you. But here he is, spooned up against your back, arms snaking around your waist, and the blanket tucked neatly over the two of you.

It’s dark and quiet and his breath is warm and even against the back of your neck. You’re reasonably certain that he’s asleep, though you wouldn’t necessarily bet money on it.

You consider your options. You probably should get up before someone wanders in and finds you like this, but…you don’t want to. You are wildly attracted to Loki—there’s no denying that—and the feeling of his strong arms wrapped snugly around your waist and the warmth of his broad chest pressing against your back is far too intoxicating to give up, even though you’re currently tangled up with him in a common area.

Still…you’re not entirely sure what to do about this. At some point, you’ll both need to go to your respective beds. Pretending to be asleep when he wakes is almost certainly not an option—he’ll somehow know that you’re faking and he’ll absolutely call you out on it, which will make the whole thing worse. Going back to sleep is tempting, but it presents its own set of risks.

But then…why did he curl up with you like this? Surely he wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t find you appealing in some way. Maybe you don’t actually need an exit strategy? Maybe you can just enjoy it. You’re a bit too comfortable, sleepy, and distracted to think properly, anyway. You allow yourself to relax further into his embrace.

And then you feel his cock twitch against your ass.

It’s almost impressive how quickly your body shifts from content and pleasantly sleepy to wide awake and intensely aroused. Somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a calm and rational voice saying you’re being ridiculous, but this is easily drowned out by the growing ache between your thighs.

You press your thighs together and try to take slow and even breaths, but it doesn’t really help. If you weren’t sure what to do before, now you’re at a complete loss. The safe assumption would be to chalk it up to biology and timing and move on, but it’s really difficult to do that when you’ve been locked in this flirty back and forth with him for months and you want him as much as you do.

You feel him twitch again and you bite your lip as the ache between your thighs pulses in a kind of answer, the slickness growing. Your breath is quiet, but shallow, your heart thrumming in your throat.

You’re trying to keep perfectly still, but between your aching core and the slight kink in your hip from the way you’re positioned on the couch, doing so is easier said than done. You hold out for as long as you can before you give in and shift your hips slightly, trying to be as subtle as possible.

He stirs in his sleep and pulls you closer, his cock pressing hard against your ass. You’re not sure if he’s awake—his breath is still coming slow and even against the back of your neck—but you can’t quite suppress the way your own breath stutters in your throat when you feel him against you.

God, you want him.

He flexes his fingers where they are splayed against your stomach. You feel the tip of his nose brush against the curve of your neck.

“Will you admit now that you want me?” he says. His voice is low and intimate and calls to mind dark silk and smoke.

“I didn’t know that you wanted me to,” you say, which is true—whatever’s been brewing between you has been subtle, more sidelong glances than lustful stares; you’ve never spoken about it.

“Don’t play coy with me, pet,” he says, his voice a soft growl against your neck. “I have enjoyed the chase, but I’ve no more patience for games.”

The slickness between your thighs increases at the slight roughness in his voice. His lips graze the shell of your ear and you let out a sharp breath.

“Admit it.” He catches your earlobe between his teeth and gently sucks it into his mouth.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your back arching slightly against him.

“In due time,” he says, his hips pressing back against you. “Answer me first.”

You roll over so that you’re facing him. The sharp, angular planes of his face are flattered by the faint, moody blue light from the sleeping city outside. He stares openly, brazenly, at your lips, his hand resting on your waist.

“What happens if I do?” you ask.

He gives you a wolfish smile and his hand strokes down your waist to your thigh. He pulls your leg up and over his hip, drawing you toward him so that his cock presses against your clothed heat. You have to bite your lip to hold back a moan, but you’re pretty sure he catches the slight hitch in your breath.

“You’re a clever girl,” he says, “I’m sure you can work it out.”

When you’ve thought about this moment before—and you’ve admittedly thought about it a lot—you’ve always imagined yourself smirking right back at him, meeting his clever quips with barbs of your own until he’s forced to admit how much he wants you. But you’re not quite prepared for the way that your brain abruptly short circuits at the feeling of his thick, hard cock pressing against your clit through the thin fabric of your leggings or how his gaze is a thousand times hungrier in the dark than it was in your imagination. It feels thrilling and sexy being here with him like this, tangled up in the dead of night in the middle of the common area. Clever quips and keeping him hanging seem like an impossibility several times over.

He seems to sense that your resolve is faltering because his hand slides to your lower back and he rocks his hips against you ever so slightly, giving you just a taste of that beautiful friction.

“Admit it.” It’s not a question this time and a pleasant shiver runs up your spine.

You lick your lips. “I—I want you.”

His smile is like sin. “Good girl.”

You’re practically trembling with want when he kisses you, so slow and sensual that it makes you whimper when his tongue strokes past your lips and into your mouth.

He moves in a languid, almost lazy way that makes you dizzy with need. He’s completely unhurried, but there’s a tension in his body that tells you he’s barely holding back, that he wants you a lot more than what he’s saying.

You almost don’t notice his hand sliding from your back to your hip and then ghosting along your stomach until he slips it under the band of your leggings.

“How much do you want me?” he asks as his fingers trail lightly along the fabric of your underwear.

“You can’t tell?” you ask, trying and mostly failing to keep your voice level.

“I like to be certain,” he says.

“You just like hearing me say it,” you say.

His eyes glitter as his hand slips under the elastic of your underwear and slowly creeps downward. “And why shouldn’t I like hearing you tell me how much you want me?”

“I—” His hand is so close to where you need him. He runs one finger right along the edge of your slit and your breath catches. “I—I don’t…”

He raises an eyebrow expectantly. “You don't…?”

“I…” Your mind is blissfully blank and every fiber of your being is focused on his hand and your aching clit. “I—I don’t…remember the question.”

You think you must have surprised him a little because he laughs in a way that makes his eyes light up, even in the moody blue half dark of the room. But after a brief moment he refocuses and his fingers slowly part your dripping folds and finally stroke your throbbing clit.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe, a moan catching in your throat.

“As I thought,” he tuts. “You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” You nod and he makes a scolding sound. “Say it. Tell me what you need.”

You can feel your cheeks heat, which is ridiculous given that he’s got his hand down your pants. You lick your lips. “I need to come.”

“And what do you want me to do about that?” His fingers circle your clit lightly and retreat.

You shiver, your hips rolling forward, searching out his fingers. “Touch me.”

“How?”

You bite back a whimper as his fingers trace a circuit around your clit, avoiding your obvious need. “Please, Loki.”

“I need you to be more specific, darling,” he purrs. Your hips roll forward and he retreats again.

“You know what I want,” you say.

His smile is sharp. “Have we not established that I like hearing you say such things?” His fingers bypass your clit again. “Tell me how you want me to touch you. Tell me what you want.”

Your pride—or what remains of it—has slowly eroded to nothing. You lick your lips. You need him.

“I—I need you to touch me,” you say again. “I want you to rub my clit until I come on your fingers.”

His smile is vulpine but his fingers finally roll over your clit, lightly circling it. You breathe out, your hips rocking with his hand.

“Absolutely drenched,” he murmurs. “You’re a proper mess, my love.”

“It’s because you’re such a fucking tease,” you say, your hands sliding up to grip his shoulders.

His eyebrows rise. “I’m a tease? Am I not giving you everything that you asked for?”

“After amping me up,” you retort.

“And I’m taking care of that now, aren’t I? I’m touching you just like you begged me to.” He changes the movement of his hand slightly, fingers rolling across the most sensitive part of your clit. You suck in a deep breath and his eyes darken as he readjusts his hand to hit that spot again. “And you obviously like it. I daresay you need it.”

Your head tips back as your hips rock with his hand. You can feel your orgasm beginning to build and for the first time, it occurs to you that you are doing this in the middle of a common area. Reluctant as you are to stop, you can’t help but think it might be best to relocate.

“Should—fuck, yes, just like that—should we go back to your room? Or mine?” you manage to gasp.

“I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

“S-someone might hear,” you gasp as his fingers massage your slick and swollen clit.

The white of his teeth flashes in the dark as he continues to touch you. “Then I suggest you keep quiet,” he says, his voice rough.

You manage to raise an eyebrow. “You don’t want to hear me?”

Another sharp smile. “Later.” His eyes darken. “You’ve kept me from my prize long enough. I rather think you’ve earned this little game.”

“I thought you had no more patience for games,” you manage to say.

He smiles and it occurs to you that he likes it when you talk back, perhaps just as much as you enjoy him putting you in your place. “Oh, I think I rather like this game,” he says, his fingers suddenly slowing, but still exerting a firm pressure on your clit. “How hard will you come for me? How quiet can you be?” His eyes darken again. “Or perhaps you don’t want to be quiet. Perhaps you want to be heard. Perhaps you want the others to know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

You shudder despite yourself.

“Wicked girl,” he murmurs appreciatively. “Letting me touch you out here in the open like this. Anyone could walk in here and see.”

“You’d really let that happen?” you ask. “I didn’t take you for the type who likes to share.”

The hunger in his eyes increases tenfold and you know this was the right thing to say. “Oh, I don’t share, darling. Especially not you.” He increases the speed of his fingers ever so slightly and your breath catches, the tension in your hips building. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this? How many times I’ve thought about ravishing you until you forget every name but mine? How many times I’ve imagined you wet and begging for my cock?” His voice drops to a low rasp. “I have gone to bed hard and aching for you more nights than I can count.”

His words and his fingers are a wonderful and wicked combination. You reach for him, tangling your fingers in his ink dark hair and pulling him in to kiss you. He does, but with such a lazy restraint that you can’t help but whimper a little, trying to press yourself closer as your hips rock with his hand. You’re reaching the place in the lead up to your orgasm where you’re so desperate to come that you feel like you’d do almost anything. It’s a heady place, with an edge of danger and you think that Loki must have an inkling of it based on the way his eyes darken.

“Did you think of me like this? Did you touch yourself, imagining the feeling of my hands on your body?”

“I—”

He must catch the slight hesitation in your eyes because that firm authority returns to his voice. “Tell me.”

Panting, you nod and earn another one of those dark and hungry smiles.

“How many times did you make yourself come while thinking of me?”

You don’t know the answer to that. Partly because it was like…several times a week. For the last six months. At least.

“A lot,” you finally manage.

His smile is devilish as he kisses you. “You’re going to come at least twice as hard for me tonight.”

The muscles of your cunt clench tightly around nothing. You need him so badly. Have you ever needed anyone like this? You’re fairly sure you haven’t. You’re getting close, your hips rolling with the stroke of his hand.

“Tell me how much you need it,” he purrs. “Tell me how you need to fall apart on my fingers.”

“Loki—”

“Tell me.”

“Please—I’m so close—”

“Tell me and I’ll let you come. Be a good girl for me, darling, and I’ll give you everything you need.”

You gasp. “Fuck, Loki, I—fuck, I need to come—I need you—”

You’re not sure how he manages it—perhaps there’s some magic involved, perhaps it’s luck or skill—but you start to come the moment the words leave your lips. The edges of your vision blur slightly as your orgasm overtakes you, roaring up from your hips and bursting like fireworks in the night sky. You gasp, trying to hold in a moan, but a slight whimper escapes you before Loki’s mouth covers your own, claiming you in a hungry kiss. His hand is still moving, fingers still circling your clit.

“Oh, yes,” he breathes against your lips. “Oh that’s lovely.”

It seems to last a long time, drawing out in long waves that make your toes curl. He kisses you throughout, until you very nearly lose track of where you end and he begins. All the while, his fingers keep rubbing your clit, extending your pleasure and making you shudder.

You can feel his cock still pressing against your hip and you want nothing more than to take him in your hands and make him feel just as good as he made you feel.

“I want to touch you,” you say and you’re treated to another one of those hungry smiles before he starts undoing the fastenings of his trousers. His cock finally springs free and you suck in a deep breath. He’s big—easily the biggest you’ve ever had—and you can’t help the ache that courses through you.

It’s immensely rewarding hearing his breath hitch when you take him in your hand. You’re surprised by how warm he is—you’d expect a Frost Giant to run a little cooler, but he’s hot and throbbing. You stroke him slowly from base to tip, squeezing his shaft ever so slightly.

His head tips back and he lets out a very quiet groan before reaching to push your hand away. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I’m sorry—” you start to say.

“I need you now,” he says, tugging your leggings and underwear down and off, his voice conveying both authority and desperation in a way that makes you ache.

He pulls you to him, drawing your leg up over his hip to spread you open. He rubs the tip of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your slickness and taking every opportunity to tease your clit.

He finally settles himself at your entrance and slowly begins easing into you.

He kisses you and it’s a good thing he does because you’re so slick and wound up that the dull, blunt stretch of his cock sliding inside of you unexpectedly tips you right back over the edge, pulling a soft moan from your lips as you come on his cock. You almost have a mind to be embarrassed—you’ve hardly begun and you’re already coming undone—but the feral glint in Loki’s eyes is enough to make you forget all about it.

“Like I said: you’re absolutely desperate for it, ” he says, pressing even deeper inside of you. “And you’re taking me so well.” He withdraws slightly and pushes forward again and you bury your face in his neck to hide your moan.

His fingers slide between your legs to find your clit. “I want to feel you come again,” he says, gently beginning to stroke you as he thrusts again. “You feel exquisite.”

It doesn’t take very long for him to build you back up—the steady thrust of his cock stroking your slick walls just right and his fingers expertly circling your clit is more than enough to take you there. It’s all so good and the way he’s kissing you is making you dizzy in the best way.

“I can feel you, darling,” he purrs in your ear. “Let go. Come on my cock like a good girl.”

With a few more thrusts, you do. You bury your face in his shoulder, trying to muffle your moans as much as possible.

“That’s it, yes,” he growls as he fucks you through the aftershocks. His brow is furrowed and his focus is intent and you can tell he’s getting close.

“Loki,” you breathe.

Even though he’s in the process of losing his composure, he still manages a wicked grin. “One more for me, love,” he rasps.

You’re not sure if you can manage another, to be quite frank. “Loki, I—”

“One more,” he says again, his eyes flashing. “One more and I’ll fill your tight, perfect cunt with my seed. One more and I’ll make you mine.”

His words send something electric and primal racing up your spine and quite suddenly, you find yourself hurtling toward the release you didn’t think you had in you. A choked whimper catches in your throat and you are trembling in his arms and with one last shudder, you come hard.

“Nearly there.” His words are punctuated by gasps, his hips never faltering in their rhythm.

His hips snap hard against you and he throws his head back, his face rapt in ecstasy, lost to a pure pleasure as he comes. He’s staggeringly beautiful in this moment and you’re filled with a feral kind of possessiveness—he is yours and you don’t want to share this moment or this feeling or this man with anyone else. It’s a startling thought—one you know that you know you’ll need to interrogate at some point—but you decide that it can wait until later. He starts kissing you and it nearly takes your breath away—it’s soft and tender and still so decadent it feels like it should be forbidden.

You want to stay in this moment with him, your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock still pressed inside of you, but you know it can’t last. Something in your chest aches as he pulls away from you, vanishes the mess and tucks himself back into his trousers. He slowly stands up and you suddenly feel so much colder than you were before.

But before you can start to wallow in that misery, he’s bending down and scooping you up into his arms, throw blanket and all.

Before you can even think to ask where he’s taking you, you’re in his rooms and he’s placing you gently on the bed.

“Oh, so now you want privacy,” you say as you watch him quickly strip off his clothes, your gaze lingering on every emerging detail like you’re a woman starved.

He smirks and joins you in bed, covering your body with his and kissing you deeply as he pulls off the rest of your clothes. The feeling of his bare skin on yours is so dizzying that it takes you a moment to realize that he’s hard again.

“Already?” you say with a disbelieving laugh.

His smile is sin dripped in syrup. “I am a god, pretty girl.”

The ache between your legs returns and he kisses you like he knows it.

“And this time,” he says, his eyes glittering with want, “I want to hear you scream for me.”

You are more than happy to oblige.

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