#predator!loki | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

Note

Hi! If it’s not too much, could you do spider-man villains responding to an underling hitting reader like you did for the bat-villains? (Idk if you do the spider-man villains or just marvel villains in general so feel free to do that if you’d prefer) You’re really good at getting into characters’ heads it’s really fun to read!

MARVEL COMICS VILLAINS X FEM!READER

One of the underlings hit you and your partner finds out

Characters: Dr. Doom, Bullseye, Taskmaster, Loki, Crossbones, Zemo, Muse, Hela, Green Goblin, Eddie/Venom, Doctor Octopus, Kraven, The Lizard, Carnage, Electro, Kingpin, Scorpion, Hobgoblin, Mysterio, Sandman, Shocker, Chameleon, Mister Negative & Boomerang

Reply to anon: FINALLY some love for Spider-Man villains. The Spider-Man and Batman villain gallery are my favorites. I've done (almost) all of Spider-Boy's most popular villains, I really hope I did the ones you wanted.

Victor von Doom | Doctor Doom

- Doom is not a man prone to outbursts. He does not rage blindly, does not allow emotions to dictate his actions. No, his fury is measured, calculated—and when he sees the mark left on your perfect skin, he does not waste words. He simply turns, his cloak billowing as he leaves. You know better than to stop him. Whatever is about to happen is inevitable. Doom does not tolerate offenses. And this—this was the gravest of all.

- The punishment is not merely death. Death is merciful, death is quick. Doom does not grant mercy to those who defile what is his. The offender is stripped of their name, their purpose, their very existence. Doom ensures they are erased, their presence scoured from the annals of time, their life reduced to a whisper of agony. He does not need to sully his own hands—no, the world itself bends to his will, and his will is retribution.

- When he returns to you, his mask betrays nothing, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity that lingers. He reaches for you—not to inspect the wound, not to seek forgiveness, but to claim you once more, to remind you that you belong to him, and he to you. "None shall harm you and live," he states, as if it is a fundamental truth of the universe. And perhaps, under his rule, it is.

- His gauntleted fingers ghost over your skin, a contradiction of metal and reverence, of cold steel and burning devotion. "You are under my protection," he murmurs, "and my protection is absolute.” His lips brush against your temple, the touch fleeting, possessive. "They will remember what happens to those who forget."

Lester | Bullseye

- He doesn't get angry. Not at first. He just stares at you, head tilting slightly, the way a predator assesses a kill. And then—he laughs. Not the usual, cocky, self-satisfied kind. No, this one is sharper, colder, something that sends a chill down your spine. "They really put their hands on you?" he asks, his voice edged with something deadly, something thrilled. Because now? Now he gets to play.

- He finds them fast. He doesn’t rush—no, he takes his time. He enjoys watching the moment of realization dawn, the way fear blooms when they understand exactly who they’ve pissed off. And when he strikes, it isn’t just a kill. It’s an art form. He breaks bones with pinpoint accuracy, flays skin with nothing but the flick of a blade. Every hit is personal, every wound a lesson. By the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but ruin.

- When he comes back, he’s still grinning, like he’s high off the violence. He leans in close, voice dripping with amusement. "Y’know, I was gonna kill ‘em quick, but then I thought—nah, let’s make it memorable." His fingers trace the bruise on your skin, eyes dark with something almost hungry. "Bet they won’t be hittin’ anyone ever again. Hell, they won’t even be breathing."

- Then, just as suddenly, the danger flickers, shifts into something else. His hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in, his lips brushing against yours, slow and deliberate. "Next time, babe? Just say the word. I'll tear the whole damn world apart for you."

Tony Masters | Taskmaster

- Tony doesn't ask what happened—he sees it. The way you shift your weight, the slight tension in your jaw, the way your hand lingers over the injury just a second too long. He catches every detail, every weakness, because that’s what he does. And right now? Right now, someone’s weakness is about to become their death sentence.

- He doesn't just kill the bastard. No, that would be easy. He studies them first. Watches their movements, their stance, every tell in their body. And then? Then he dismantles them. Uses their own techniques against them, mirrors their every move just to show them how outmatched they are. By the time he’s done, they don’t just lose. They know they never stood a chance.

- When he returns, there’s no grand declaration, no need for theatrics. He just sits beside you, arms crossed, gaze sharp and assessing. "You alright?" he asks, and it’s almost casual—almost. But there’s a weight to it, an unspoken promise beneath the words. You nod, and he exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Good." A beat. Then, "Don’t let it happen again."

- But later, when the lights are low and his guard is down, his hand drifts to your hip, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your skin. "Ain't nobody touches you but me," he mutters, voice rough, possessive. "And I don't do soft." His lips ghost over yours, teasing, taunting. "But for you? Maybe I’ll make an exception."

Loki Laufeyson

- He does not react at first. He simply observes. Fingers steepled, expression unreadable, eyes too calm. And that? That is far more terrifying than rage. Because Loki is not a creature of impulse. He is a creature of calculated destruction. And this? This offense against you? It will be answered with something far worse than death.

- The punishment is poetic. He does not simply kill the offender—he undoes them. Twists their mind until they are unmade, until they do not know their own name, their own face. They become a whisper, a tragedy, a thing lost to the very fabric of reality itself. And Loki? Loki watches, amused, as they break. "Oh, dear," he muses. "It seems you have forgotten yourself. Allow me to help." And with a flick of his fingers, they are gone.

- When he returns to you, there is a smirk curling at his lips, something self-satisfied in his gaze. "It is done," he says simply, as if he has merely handled a small inconvenience. And perhaps, to him, that’s all it was. But then, his expression shifts—just slightly. His fingers ghost over your wrist, featherlight, careful, as if you are something fragile, something to be preserved. "They will not bother you again," he murmurs, "nor will anyone else."

- His arms encircle you, drawing you against him, and for a moment, there is no trickery, no illusion—just him, real and solid. His lips graze your ear, a whisper of silk and steel. "You are mine," he breathes, and there is something almost reverent in the way he says it. "And I do not share."

Brock Rumlow | Crossbones

- The moment he sees the bruise on your skin, something inside him snaps. There’s no slow burn, no measured response—just instant, blistering rage. Brock doesn’t ask who did it. He already knows. He doesn’t ask why. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that someone was stupid enough to lay a hand on you, and now? Now they have to pay.

- He doesn’t just kill them—he annihilates them. There’s no finesse, no mercy, just raw, unfiltered violence. The crack of bone, the wet sound of flesh giving way—he takes his time, makes it hurt. He wants them to understand what they’ve done. Wants them to feel every ounce of pain they dared to bring upon you. By the time he’s done, they’re nothing more than a broken, unrecognizable mess on the floor.

- When he comes back to you, his knuckles are split, his breathing heavy, his hands still trembling with the aftershock of violence. But when his eyes meet yours, the fury melts into something else. Something dark, something possessive. He reaches for you, fingers rough as they trace over your injury, his touch lingering, slow. "Ain't nobody touches what’s mine," he mutters, voice like gravel, low and sharp with promise. "Nobody."

- And then his grip tightens, just enough to remind you, just enough to claim. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Next time?" His voice drops to a whisper, deadly and sweet. "I won’t just kill ‘em. I’ll make sure they beg for it first."

Helmut Zemo

- Zemo is silent when he sees the mark on you. Too silent. The kind of quiet that is far more dangerous than any outburst, far more lethal than raised voices or shattered glass. His fingers ghost over the injury with a gentleness that feels almost deceptive, his expression unreadable, his mind already working, already planning.

- His revenge is not messy. It is not violent. It is precise. He does not grant them the dignity of an immediate death—no, he dismantles them. Strips them of their status, their power, their very identity. He orchestrates their downfall with the patience of a man who thrives on the long game, ensuring they lose everything before he grants them the release of death. By the time he is finished, they are nothing more than a ghost.

- When he returns to you, his movements are slow, deliberate. He cups your face, tilting it up so you can see the satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "It is done," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek with something almost reverent. "They will never so much as whisper your name again."

- Then, his lips graze your temple, lingering there, soft but unshakable. "No one lays a hand on you and lives," he breathes against your skin. "Not while I still draw breath."

Muse

- He doesn’t react at first. No flicker of emotion, no shift in expression—just a slow, almost languid turn of his head as he processes the fact that someone dared to harm you. And then, after a moment of silence, he smiles. It’s not warm, not reassuring—it’s something else. Something wrong. Something that should send chills down your spine.

- The underling doesn’t just die. No, Muse creates with them. He turns them into something grotesque, something artful. He strips them of their humanity in the most literal sense, carving into their flesh with the same care a sculptor takes to marble. When he’s finished, they are unrecognizable, their body a message, a masterpiece. Something for the world to witness.

- When he returns, his hands are still wet with blood, his smile still stretching a little too wide. He steps closer, tilting his head as he looks at you, as if seeing you for the first time. "You make me feel things I do not understand," he murmurs, his voice lilting, almost dreamlike. "And yet, I do not mind."

- His fingers trail over your bruised skin, slow, thoughtful. "You are mine," he hums, as if tasting the words. "And I do not take kindly to those who ruin my muse."

Hela

- Her rage is not loud. It does not explode. It devours. A slow, insidious thing that coils around her like smoke, seething just beneath the surface. She does not speak when she sees the mark on your skin. She does not need to. The air itself seems to grow heavy, the very shadows bending toward her as if they fear what is to come.

- She does not simply kill the one responsible—she eradicates them. Their soul is hers now, ripped from their body, condemned to an eternity of suffering in her grasp. She ensures their torment is endless, their agony woven into the very fabric of Hel itself. They will know true despair. They will beg for release, and she will deny them.

- When she returns to you, she does not ask if you are alright. She knows you are. You are strong. But still, her touch is almost gentle as she brushes a gloved hand over your bruised skin, as if assessing the damage, as if reminding herself that you are here. "They are nothing now," she murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. "They will never touch you again."

- Then, she cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. Her lips curve into a smirk, dark, knowing. "You are mine," she breathes, her voice a silken promise. "And what is mine is untouchable."

Norman Osborn | The Green Goblin

- He is not a man known for softness. The world has felt the wrath of his intellect, his madness, his power—but never his kindness. Yet, in his own way, you are an exception. An obsession that burrowed into his mind and refused to leave. You were his, a claim as absolute as the empire he built with blood and fire. And when one of his men struck you, something terrible and ruinous cracked open within him. Norman does not react with immediate fury. No, his rage is patient, a slow-moving thing with sharpened teeth, and it festers in silence as he watches you, as his gloved hand ghosts over the mark left behind. His voice is eerily calm. "Who?" is all he asks, and though you know what will come, you do not stop him.

- He does not waste time. The moment the name is given, the air shifts, heavy with the weight of his impending vengeance. He could kill the man outright—could rip him apart with his hands and laugh as he did it—but Norman is nothing if not poetic. There is no need for theatrics, no need for a Goblin’s grin. He strips away his mask and handles the matter as Osborn, the man, the king, the ruthless god in a businessman’s skin. His underlings learn a lesson that night: a punishment that stretches long, a display of control so profound that even those loyal to him shudder at the sight. Norman does not simply kill; he dismantles.

- He returns to you in the aftermath, his fingers still stained with evidence of his wrath. There is no apology, no soft words meant to soothe. He does not think you need them. He takes your face in his hands, holds you as if committing the shape of you to memory, and leans in, his forehead resting against yours. "You are not to be touched," he murmurs, his voice laced with something dark, something final. "Not by them. Not by anyone. Only me." His mouth finds yours, claiming and bruising, a reminder of who you belong to, of who would set the world ablaze before letting another lay a hand on you.

- In the days that follow, his men become more careful, their eyes lowering whenever you pass. He revels in it, in their fear, in the knowledge that you are untouchable. But more than that, Norman basks in the way you still stand at his side, still allow his hands on your skin, still whisper his name in the quiet of night. He does not say it aloud, but he knows it in the marrow of his bones: he would burn everything for you.

Eddie Brock | Venom

- The moment Venom senses it, the moment the bruising scent of pain clings to you, Eddie is already moving. His body tenses like a predator scenting blood, fists curling, jaw tightening, and before you can say anything, a voice darker than night slithers out, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest. "Who hurt you?" The question is not for you to answer. Venom already knows.

- There is no reasoning with Eddie when his rage is ignited, no space for rational thought. He is a man of fury, of primal justice, and there is no justice more absolute than the one he will deliver. Venom is delighted, saliva dripping from his fanged mouth as he urges Eddie forward. "We eat them." But Eddie is not in the mood for quick endings. No, this calls for something more intimate. He corners the man, fists colliding with flesh, with bone, and with each hit, his breath comes harsher, his mind consumed by the vision of you hurt, of someone daring to lay a hand on what is his.

- When he returns to you, his knuckles are bloody, his breathing uneven, but his eyes—his eyes are the most dangerous part of him. "It won’t happen again," he says, and Venom’s voice purrs in agreement, curling around the words like a promise. You reach for him, fingers tracing over the remnants of his anger, and for a moment, his fury falters. His grip tightens around you, desperate, possessive, as if anchoring himself in your warmth. "I don’t share," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine. "I don’t forgive, either."

- The city speaks in whispers after that. The man who struck you is nowhere to be found, his existence erased with the efficiency of something monstrous. Eddie doesn’t care. Venom doesn’t care. They are satisfied only in the way you still let them near, in the way your fingers tangle in Eddie’s hair as he presses against you, breathing in your scent like a man who has only ever known hunger.

Otto Octavius | Doctor Octopus

- He is a man of brilliance, of intellect, of control. But all of it fractures when he sees the mark on your skin. His metal limbs twitch, their claws clicking in restless anticipation, and his grip on his own restraint becomes tenuous. He prides himself on logic, on the ability to calculate his moves, but rage has always been an old friend, and tonight, it whispers to him with venomous sweetness. He cups your chin, his touch unexpectedly gentle despite the storm brewing in his gaze. "Tell me," he says, his voice like silk stretched over steel.

- When you do, he does not explode. Otto Octavius is not a man of reckless outbursts—he is a man of consequences. The one who hurt you does not suffer immediately. No, Otto drags it out, makes it a lesson, makes it art. His tentacles wrap around the man like a vice, lifting him effortlessly, squeezing just enough to let terror sink in. "Do you know what you’ve done?" he muses, tilting his head in that calculating way of his. "Do you understand the depths of your mistake?" There is no mercy in his eyes, only the cold brilliance of a scientist dissecting his latest subject.

- When he returns, his hands are clean, his composure intact. But there is something different in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. "No one will touch you again," he says, a quiet promise that rings louder than any scream. His arms coil around you, steel and flesh alike, pressing you into him as if ensuring your safety through sheer proximity. He is not an affectionate man, not in the traditional sense, but this—this is devotion in its truest form.

- The world shifts after that. His subordinates tread carefully, their fear evident, their respect unwavering. Otto does not care for their opinions, only for the knowledge that you are untouchable, that the universe itself would have to shatter before he allowed harm to reach you again. And when he holds you at night, when he feels the warmth of your body against his own, he knows with absolute certainty—he would burn every last one of them for you.

Sergei Kravinoff | Kraven the Hunter

- The air is thick with tension when he finds out. There is no great display of fury, no immediate act of violence—but the shift in him is undeniable. His gaze darkens, his jaw sets, and his muscles coil like a beast moments before the kill. He does not ask you to name the culprit. He does not need to. The hunt is already beginning in his mind, the scent of blood calling to him. "They have wronged you," he murmurs, his accent curling around the words like a snare. "That is all I need to know."

- He does not go after them as a man. He goes as a predator. There is no chance for escape, no hope for mercy. The one who hurt you does not simply die; they are hunted, chased, reduced to nothing more than prey beneath the weight of Sergei’s wrath. And when he returns, there is blood beneath his nails, a satisfied smirk on his lips, and something primal burning in his eyes as they settle on you.

- He takes your face in his hands, his fingers rough yet reverent. "You are mine," he tells you, his voice low, possessive, unshaken. "And no man touches what is mine." There is no hesitation when he kisses you, no gentleness—only the raw, unfiltered hunger of a man who has conquered and claimed.

- After that, there is silence. No one dares cross you, no one even dares look too long. And Sergei—Sergei watches you like the wild thing he is, his need for you carved into his very soul.

Dr. Curt Connors | The Lizard

- There are two versions of the man you love, and both are dangerous in their own ways. Dr. Connors—the brilliant, fractured scientist—sees you as something fragile, something to be protected. The Lizard—the monstrous, primal force—sees you as his, an undeniable part of his territory, a possession no one else is permitted to touch. When he smells the injury, when his reptilian senses detect the slightest irregularity in your scent, his pupils slit into thin lines, and his talons twitch. He does not ask what happened. He does not need to. You can see the change in him, the slow, deliberate way his muscles coil, the predator awakening beneath the man.

- Curt tries to hold back at first, tries to reason with himself, to suppress the darker part of him that howls for blood. But then he sees the mark—small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but a wound on you—and all his restraint shatters. His skin ripples, the transformation taking hold, scales pushing through flesh, bones shifting as something cold-blooded and relentless takes over. The man who hurt you does not get the mercy of a warning. He does not get the chance to run. The Lizard hunts him down with terrifying precision, dragging him into the depths of the sewers, where screams do not reach the surface world.

- He does not return to you as Curt, not yet. The Lizard comes first, his body tense with the aftermath of his fury, his eyes glowing in the dim light. He circles you like an animal, sniffing the air, ensuring no scent of your attacker lingers. When his clawed hands cup your face, they are gentle despite their lethal potential, his rough thumb tracing over the bruise with something close to reverence. "Mine," he hisses, low and guttural, his tail twitching behind him. "No one hurts what belongs to me." His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air around you, confirming you are safe. Only then does he allow himself to shift back, bones snapping, scales melting away, until it is Curt again—shaken, horrified by his own lack of control, but unrepentant.

- After that night, no one in his employ ever touches you again. They don’t even stand too close. The fear lingers, thick and suffocating, but you do not fear him. Not truly. Not when he presses his forehead against yours in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, his breath still uneven from the monster within him. "I won’t let it happen again," he murmurs, half a promise, half a warning to the world. And you believe him.

Cletus Kasady | Carnage

- Violence has always been Cletus’s language, and love—if he can even call what he feels for you that—is simply an extension of it. His affection is red, dripping, chaotic, something sharp-edged and all-consuming. So when he finds out someone has dared to touch you, to lay their filthy hands on what he claimed, he does not fly into a rage. No, no, no. Rage is too simple. Rage is what lesser men feel. What he feels is a different kind of thrill—something euphoric, something electric. The knowledge that he now has an excuse to indulge himself, to play.

- He finds the man easily. Carnage is not subtle, never has been, and there is no need for stealth when the hunt is half the fun. He takes his time with it, drags it out, makes sure the bastard understands the mistake he made. There are screams, of course. Begging. Pleading. But Cletus only laughs, red tendrils writhing around him like something alive, his grin wide and wicked. He does not just kill. He desecrates. When it is over, he leaves what remains in a place everyone will see, a message written in blood and viscera: SHE’S MINE.

- When he returns to you, he is still drenched in his work, red creeping up his neck like war paint. His fingers are slick when they cup your chin, tilting your head so he can drink in the sight of you, the only thing in this world he won’t destroy. "Ain’t nobody stupid enough to touch you now, doll," he purrs, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp. "But if they do… well, you know me. I love an excuse to get messy." His lips crash against yours, feverish, unhinged, tasting of copper and chaos, as if marking you from the inside out.

- The city whispers after that. Everyone knows. Everyone fears. No one dares even breathe in your direction without permission. And Cletus—Cletus is delighted. He keeps you close, always touching, always claiming, because you are the only thing in this world worth keeping, worth loving in his own sick, twisted way.

Max Dillon | Electro

- The moment Max finds out, the air around him changes. The temperature rises, the hum of electricity vibrating beneath his skin, flickering in his veins. He does not speak at first. He just stands there, his entire body coiled with tension, eyes burning with a glow that promises something catastrophic. His hands twitch, sparks crackling between his fingers, and when he finally breathes, it comes out ragged, barely contained. "Who?" The question is not a request. It is a demand, static lacing his voice like a storm on the verge of breaking.

- He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He already knows. The circuits in the building whisper their secrets to him, security cameras playing back every movement, every offense. And once he sees it—once he witnesses the insult—there is no saving the man responsible. Max does not go after him in silence. He wants people to see. He wants them to understand. When he finds his target, he doesn’t touch him at first—just lets the lights flicker, lets the air taste of ozone and danger. The fear in the man’s eyes is intoxicating. And then—then—he strikes.

- He does not just kill. He erupts. A violent surge of electricity courses through his victim’s body, lighting up the night in a gruesome spectacle. It is over in seconds, but the aftermath lingers—charred flesh, the stench of burnt skin, a warning that echoes in the city’s power lines. No one touches what belongs to Max Dillon. No one.

- When he returns, his pulse is still thrumming with energy, his hands still tingling with remnants of power. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. He simply cups your face, his touch still buzzing, his breath warm against your lips. "Nobody hurts you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, letting the electricity between you crackle softly. "Not while I’m around."

Wilson Fisk | The Kingpin

- There is no explosion of rage when Wilson finds out. No immediate outburst, no reckless display of violence. Instead, there is silence. A heavy, suffocating quiet that settles over the room as he absorbs the information, as he lets the weight of it sink into his bones. He does not ask questions. He does not need to. His mind has already moved past the why and straight into the how.

- The man who struck you is dead before the sun rises. Wilson does not delegate this task. He handles it himself, in the cold, calculated way that only he can. The punishment is not just a beating. It is an education. He ensures that every broken bone, every gasping breath, is a lesson. That by the time it is over, the man understands—truly understands—who you belong to.

- When he returns to you, his suit is pristine, his composure unshaken, but there is something in his eyes—something dark, something possessive. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. "You are mine," he states, as if it is law, as if it is the only truth that matters. "And I will never allow harm to come to what is mine."

- The city learns quickly. No one touches you. No one dares. Because to harm you is to invoke the wrath of a king, and there is no place in this world where his reach does not extend.

Mac Gargan | The Scorpion

- Mac has always been a creature of violence. It sits in his bones, coils in his muscles, waiting for an excuse to strike. But this—this—is different. This is not a bar fight, not some petty vendetta. This is you. His girl. His one good thing in a world that never gave him anything but rage. And someone thought they could lay a hand on you? His fingers curl into fists so tight his knuckles crack, his breath coming out in short, harsh bursts. The suit hums around him, reacting to his anger, tail twitching like a serpent poised to strike.

- He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He hunts. The city is a labyrinth of shadows, but Mac is a predator who knows every back alley, every bolt hole. And when he finds the bastard, there’s no warning. No time for apologies, for begging, for mercy that never existed in the first place. He slams the man against a wall hard enough to rattle bones, his tail curling around his throat, lifting him off the ground with slow, deliberate cruelty. "You think you're tough?" His voice is low, venomous, dripping with the promise of pain. "Think you can put your hands on her and walk away?"

- The fight is short, brutal. Mac doesn’t just beat him—he breaks him. Leaves him gasping in the filth of the streets, bruised, bloodied, and barely breathing. He could end it. Should end it. But no, he wants this bastard to live. Wants him to wake up every day knowing he made the worst mistake of his life. That if he so much as breathes in your direction again, Mac will be the last thing he ever sees.

- When he returns to you, his hands are still shaking, but his grip is gentle when he cups your face, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. His expression is dark, possessive, fierce. "Ain’t nobody touching you again," he mutters, his thumb tracing over your skin, as if reassuring himself that you’re real, that you’re his. "Ever."

Roderick Kingsley | The Hobgoblin

- The first time he sees the mark on your skin, something inside him snaps. Roderick has always been meticulous, always prided himself on being in control, but this—this—is unacceptable. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for violence, but his face remains eerily composed, the kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Who?" he asks, voice soft, deadly. It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

- Roderick does not make a spectacle of his revenge. He is not like the others—messy, impulsive, obvious. No, he is calculated. He plays the long game, luring the fool into a false sense of security. Then, when the time is right, he strikes. The underling who dared touch you disappears, and for days, no one hears from him. Then, suddenly, his body turns up—dismembered, displayed with sickening artistry, a message written in his own blood. A warning.

- When he returns to you, there is not a single speck of blood on him. He is as immaculate as always, his movements smooth and practiced as he approaches you. His gloved fingers brush over your shoulder, over the place where the injury once was, his touch lingering. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again," he murmurs, voice silken but laced with something darker, something dangerous. "Not unless they have a death wish."

- He tilts your chin up with two fingers, studying you with that sharp, analytical gaze, and then he smiles—slow, lazy, possessive. "You belong to me, darling," he whispers against your lips, a ghost of a threat, a vow wrapped in silk. "And I always take care of what’s mine."

Quentin Beck | Mysterio

- Quentin is a master of illusions, a man who bends reality to his will. But this—this is no illusion. The sight of your injury is real. And that, more than anything, enrages him. He stands utterly still, his fingers twitching at his sides, his mind already spinning through a thousand different ways to fix this. "Someone put their hands on you?" His voice is eerily calm, too calm, like the surface of still water before something drags you under.

- He doesn’t just want revenge—he wants a show. Wants to make an example of the fool who thought they could harm his masterpiece. The man who hurt you wakes up in a nightmare. Shadows twist unnaturally around him, voices whisper from the darkness, and the air itself becomes suffocating. He cannot see. He cannot escape. Quentin lets him feel true fear, lets his mind break apart at the seams. And when he finally steps into the illusion, bathed in eerie green light, his voice is cold, theatrical. "You touched something that belongs to me. Now, let’s see how you like being toyed with."

- By the time the illusion fades, the man is reduced to a shaking, incoherent wreck, his mind so shattered that he will never be the same. Quentin does not need to dirty his hands with blood. He has already won. Fear is the best weapon, after all. And now? Now, no one will ever dare lay a hand on you again.

- When he returns, his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he cups your face, tracing the curve of your jaw. "I’ve taken care of it," he murmurs, his voice carrying that ever-present theatrical flair, as if this was simply another act in a grand performance. "No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m around." And when he presses his lips to yours, it is possessive, a silent claim. You are mine. And I will burn the world before I let it take you from me.

Flint Marko | The Sandman

- Flint has never claimed to be a good man, but there are rules. Lines that even criminals don’t cross. And someone crossing you? That is unforgivable. When he sees the mark on you, the wound left by some lowlife under his command, something dark passes over his expression. His jaw tightens, his fists clench, and for a long moment, he just stares. Then, in a voice too quiet, too steady, he asks, "Who did it?"

- He doesn’t wait for the answer. He already knows. He finds him. And when he does, he doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t make threats. He just acts. His body twists and warps, arms elongating, fists turning into massive clubs of hardened sand. The first hit is brutal, sending the man crashing through a wall. The second is worse. By the time he’s done, the bastard is barely breathing, half-buried in the debris, coughing up blood and dust. Flint leans down, voice low, gravelly, dangerous. "You ever even look at her again, I’ll make sure there ain’t enough of you left to bury."

- When he returns to you, his hands are still rough, still calloused, but they are infinitely careful when they touch you. His fingers ghost over the mark, his brows furrowed in something like guilt, like regret that he wasn’t there when it happened. "I shoulda stopped it before it happened," he mutters, frustration lacing his tone. "Ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on you again. I promise you that."

- He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin, his presence solid, steady, safe. And when he speaks again, his voice is softer, rough with something that sounds almost like devotion. "You’re the only thing in this world I ain’t gonna lose." And somehow, you know he means it.

Herman Schultz | The Shocker

- Violence has always been a means to an end for Herman, never something he enjoyed. He’s not one of those lunatics who relish brutality—he’s just a man trying to make a living. But when he sees the bruise marring your skin, the way you flinch ever so slightly when you move, something inside him curdles. His stomach twists, his fingers flex, and there’s a slow, creeping heat behind his eyes. Somebody hurt you. And that? That’s something he can’t let slide.

- He doesn’t go in guns blazing. He’s smarter than that. He finds out who did it first, who was stupid enough to lay hands on his girl. And when he does? He makes sure the message is clear. The vibrations from his gauntlets don’t just break bones—they shatter them. There’s no warning, no grand speech, just a quick, brutal demonstration of what happens when you cross him. The air trembles with every hit, and by the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but wreckage and regret.

- When he comes back to you, he’s quieter than usual. There’s no bravado, no cocky grin—just a lingering tension in his shoulders, a ghost of something dark in his eyes. He hesitates before reaching for you, before brushing his knuckles ever so gently over the bruise. "Didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this," he mutters, voice low, rough with something close to guilt. "But I swear—it ain’t happenin’ again."

- And then, finally, his hands settle on your waist, pulling you against him, grounding himself in you. He presses his forehead to yours, exhales slow, deliberate. "You’re my girl," he murmurs, his voice softer now, steadier. "And I protect what’s mine."

Dmitri Smerdyakov | The Chameleon

- Dmitri is a man of masks, of deception, of control. And yet, when he sees the mark on your skin, all of that precision shatters. His breath slows, his body stills, and for the first time in a long time, something genuine flickers behind his ever-changing eyes. Fury. Not the theatrical kind, not the controlled, manufactured type—this is something raw, something visceral. Someone thought they could touch you and get away with it.

- He does not act in haste. No, he is patient, methodical. He waits. He studies his prey, slipping into their world, wearing faces they trust, whispering secrets that lead them straight to their downfall. By the time they realize what’s happening, it’s far, far too late. One night, they close their eyes—and when they wake, they are not where they were before. A cold, dimly lit room. A voice, smooth as silk, drips from the darkness. "Did you think I would not find you?"

- By the time he returns to you, there is not a single trace of blood on him. No evidence, no mess—only the ghost of a smirk, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He steps close, fingers trailing over your wrist, up your arm, as if ensuring you are whole, untouched. "No one will ever hurt you again," he whispers, and it is not just a promise. It is fact.

- His lips brush against the shell of your ear, his voice a soft murmur, intimate, possessive. "You are mine, моя любовь. And I do not share what is mine."

Martin Li | Mister Negative

- There are two sides to Martin—light and shadow, kindness and wrath. But when he sees the evidence of someone else's violence on you, there is no kindness left. His breath catches, his fingers tighten into fists, and something in his expression shifts—something dangerous. He touches the injury gently, as if the very act of acknowledging it might taint you further. And then, quietly, almost too softly, he asks, "Who did this to you?"

- When he finds them, there is no shouting, no theatrics—only inevitability. The underling barely has time to register their mistake before Martin unleashes the darkness within. The corruption devours them, twisting their very essence, making them feel every ounce of pain they have inflicted—tenfold. They scream, but there is no one to save them. And Martin watches, calm, composed, as their own sins consume them from the inside out.

- When he returns to you, his hands are cool when they cup your face, his expression eerily serene. There is no need to speak of what he has done—you already know. Instead, his thumb brushes over your cheek, his touch reverent, careful. "I will not allow harm to come to you again," he says simply, as if it is law, as if the very world itself bends to his decree.

- And then, softly, with all the tenderness in the world, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, his breath warm against your skin. "You are precious to me," he whispers, and beneath the gentleness, there is an edge of something darker, something absolute. "And I do not lose what is mine."

Fred Myers | Boomerang

- Fred has never been the serious type. Always laughing, always running his mouth, always playing things off like nothing really matters. But when he sees what happened to you? When he sees the proof that someone put their hands on you? The easygoing grin vanishes. His whole body goes still. And then, with a quiet, almost chilling sort of calm, he says, "Tell me who did it."

- He tracks the bastard down himself, no hired muscle, no goons—just him. And when he finds them, all the jokes, all the charm, all the bullshit he usually hides behind is gone. He’s fast, brutal, efficient—sharp knuckles, steel-toed boots, the snap of a ribcage giving way under pressure. He doesn’t need his boomerangs for this. No, this? This is personal.

- When he comes back, there’s blood on his hands—his own, maybe, but mostly theirs. And for the first time in a long time, he actually looks serious. No jokes, no smug quips—just that sharp, assessing gaze as he steps closer, fingers brushing over your wrist. "They won’t bother you again," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, lower. "Nobody’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m around."

- And then, as if realizing how intense he sounds, he exhales, shakes his head, lets that familiar smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Damn," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, eyes dark with something dangerous. "Didn’t know I had it in me to get all protective." His grin widens, teasing, but his grip on you is firm, steady. "Guess you bring out the worst in me, sweetheart. Or maybe the best.”

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societyfolklore · 4 months ago

Text

Polite Punishment

Title: Polite Punishment

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Summary: Loki is a jealous man and when you make the mistake of talking to another during the celebrations, well he just has to remind you who you belong too.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Smut, jealousy, Possessiveness, Manhandling, Marking, Praise & Degradation, Slight Overstimulation, fingering, rough sex, wall sex, sex in hall way.. Loki Being a bloody menace

A/N: I’ve missed him! Been so Bucky focused I needed my slinky boy!

You barely had a chance to breathe before you were dragged into the shadows.

Loki’s fingers clamped around your wrist, his grip like iron as he pulled you into a secluded alcove in the Asgardian palace. The grand ballroom continued behind you, filled with laughter, clinking goblets, and the hum of a celebration. But here, in the darkness, the air was thick with something else entirely. The scent of candle wax and Asgardian mead lingered, but it was drowned out by the sheer heat radiating from him.

Loki shoved you against the cool stone wall, his body pressing flush against yours, his breath sharp and uneven. You tried to steady yourself, but it was impossible with his presence enveloping you, his touch an intoxicating mixture of anger and need.

His hands trailed down your arms, fingers ghosting over your skin before tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. He didn’t speak yet, only watching you, gaze flickering over your parted lips, your heaving chest. A predator assessing its prey.

He was furious.

But there was something else beneath the rage, something darker, hungrier. The kind of possessiveness that didn’t just demand, it devoured.

"Loki- "

"Silence."

The command was sharp, ice-cold, but the way his fingers brushed against your pulse betrayed something deeper. A barely-restrained desperation. He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, breath hot against your skin. His voice was low, rich, a velvet dagger pressed to your throat.

"Tell me, little minx- did you enjoy it?" His voice dripped with venom, smooth and dangerous, each syllable wrapping around you like a snare.

Your brow furrowed, confusion flickering across your face. "Enjoy what?"

His fingers closed around your chin, tilting your face up until his piercing blue eyes burned into yours. The air between you felt electric, his touch searing against your skin.

"Don’t play coy." His thumb brushed your bottom lip, lingering there, pressing just enough to part your lips. His touch was deceptively soft, the calm before the storm brewing beneath his frame. "I saw you let him touch you. That pathetic little excuse for a noble. His hands on your arm. His lips close to your ear."

Your stomach tightened, your breath hitching at the restrained fury in his voice.

"Loki, he was just being polite- " you tried, but your voice wavered, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears.

"Polite." Loki scoffed, the word rolling off his tongue like a venom-laced dagger. The corner of his mouth curled into something dark, possessive, and before you could react, his knee nudged between your thighs, parting them with slow, deliberate force. The movement was effortless, a show of control that sent a ripple of heat through you.

"Politeness does not make your breath hitch," he murmured, tilting his head, watching you unravel. "It does not make you look at him like that. Like a temptress, knowing full well to whom you belong."

A soft whimper betrayed you. You swallowed hard, your pulse skipping, heart racing as his hands slid lower, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your waist, a slow, possessive caress that burned through the fabric of your dress.

"He touched you." Loki’s lips brushed against your cheek, the faintest ghost of contact that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

His breath was hot against your skin, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "I hope you enjoyed it, darling."

His fingers slid down your waist, gripping you with sudden force, dragging you flush against him, his body hard, unyielding. His scent- leather, spice, and something darkly intoxicating, filled your senses, overwhelming you. He was starving for you, but you could feel it, he wanted you to suffer for it, to beg.

"Because I’m about to make sure you'll want no one else to touch you again."

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as he spun you around, pressing your chest to the cool stone. His hands were everywhere, spreading your thighs, yanking up the layers of fabric between him and what was his. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh, as if he needed to remind you exactly who owned you.

"You belong to me, pet. Say it."

Your head swam, arousal pulsing low in your belly, your breath catching as the dominance in his voice sent a thrill straight through you. "Loki- "

A sharp slap landed on your ass, making you yelp, the sting of his palm leaving heat blooming across your skin.

"Say it."

Your hands braced against the wall, body trembling, your thighs squeezing together in desperate need. "I- I belong to you."

Loki hummed, pleased, his teeth grazing your neck before he bit down, sucking a deep bruise into your delicate skin. You could feel the smirk against your throat as he pulled away.

"Good girl."

His fingers slipped beneath your undergarment, teasing along your slick folds, and he let out a low, wicked chuckle.

"Tsk. And here you were, acting so innocent." His fingers pressed in deeper, gathering your arousal, his other hand steadying you by your hip as you whimpered, pushing back against him.

"So needy for me already." His tongue flicked against your earlobe, and you shuddered, your body betraying you. "Tell me, little one, do you think he could make you this wet? Think he could make you moan the way I do?"

You shook your head, lips parted, a whimper breaking free. He wasn’t satisfied.

"Say it." His fingers withdrew, leaving you empty, aching, until he thrust them back in, curling them just right.

Your body jerked, a strangled moan escaping your lips. "No- only you, Loki, only you- please- "

He growled, low and possessive, before flipping you back around before you could catch your breath. His eyes burned into you, his pupils blown wide, his smirk dark and sinfully cruel.

"That’s what I thought."

And then he was inside you.

You screamed, your back arching as he buried himself deep, stretching you so completely that for a moment, you couldn’t tell if it was pain or pleasure making your vision blur. He was huge, his length forcing you open, filling you to your limit, and still, he pressed forward, deeper, deeper, until you felt impossibly full, until you thought you might break.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto as his pace turned brutal, relentless, desperate. He groaned, a ragged sound against your skin, his breath hot and uneven.

"Too much?" His voice was a cruel mockery of concern, but his hands were firm, gripping your thighs, holding you open for him as he dragged himself out just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before slamming back in with a force that left you breathless.

"Take it, little one," he murmured, his voice dark, silk-soft, wicked. "You can take all of me."

Your walls fluttered around him, body clenching, torn between the burn and the devastating pleasure that followed every punishing thrust. Loki growled, low and possessive, his fingers leaving bruises where he gripped you, his body driving you further, higher, into something uncontrollable.

You had never felt so completely his.

He lifted you effortlessly, pressing you firm against the wall, one hand gripping your thigh as he drove himself harder, deeper. Each thrust sent fire sparking through your veins, a delicious mix of pleasure and punishment. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the secluded alcove, your gasps swallowed by Loki’s hungry mouth as he claimed you in every possible way.

"Mine," Loki snarled, biting down on your shoulder, his hands leaving burning imprints on your hips. "No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hear the way you moan. Do they darling? Need you to say it again."

You couldn’t think, could barely breathe, your body shattering apart as he pounded into you with devastating force. "L-Loki."

"You feel it, don’t you?" His voice was ragged, half a growl. "How perfectly you fit around me?"

You nodded frantically, tears pricking your eyes as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly. "Yes- Loki, please- "

"Please?" His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and his hand slid between you to rub tight, torturous circles over your clit. "You beg so prettily, darling. Say it properly."

Your hands scrabbled for purchase against the stone wall, nails scraping helplessly against the rough surface as your entire body trembled with need. You barely had enough breath to speak, your voice breaking into a whimper. "Please, Loki- please let me come!"

"Good girl." His voice was dark with approval, a deep growl of possession that curled around you like a chain.

His fingers pressed harder, merciless and unrelenting, his pace turning feral, unstoppable- and the world shattered. The tension inside you snapped with violent intensity, pleasure cresting in a devastating wave that tore through your limbs, leaving you wrecked and trembling. You screamed his name, your body seizing around him, walls clenching tight as he drove into you harder, milking every last pulse of pleasure from your body.

Loki let out a low, broken groan, his grip bruising as he slammed deep one last time, spilling into you with a shuddering gasp. His hips jerked, lazy thrusts rolling through his aftershocks, making sure you felt every drop, every claim he had on you.

Your legs gave out, but Loki caught you easily, his strong arms wrapping around you as he sank to the floor with you still locked in his embrace. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your damp skin.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breathing, your pulse thundering in your ears. Loki pressed a slow, languid kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering as if he couldn’t bear to pull away just yet.

Then, his mouth curved into a smirk, his voice still thick with satisfaction as he nuzzled into your hair.

"You will not make me jealous again, darling." His lips grazed your ear, his breath sending another shiver down your spine as his fingers traced soft, lazy patterns along your skin.

Then, with a chuckle laced with dark amusement, he added, "But gods help me… I almost hope you do."

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neil-gaiman · 1 year ago

Note

Isn’t Loki technically the first androgynous king out there? Because technically him being a mother and a father at the same time would imply that he is both a male and a female, right?

Adam Kadman would predate Loki by many thousands of years. But Asushunamir predates Adam Kadman. Ardhanarishvara postdates Asushunamir but predates Loki by a few hundred years. So, no.

1K notes · View notes

ruewritesoccasionally · 24 days ago

Text

Confinement | Terry Richmond

^^prompt pairing: dark!terry richmond x black reader

warnings: extreme dark themes and smut (18+), psychological manipulation, power imbalance, emotional coercion, orgasm denial, use of restraints, obsessive dynamics, blurred professional boundaries, surveillance implications, d/s dynamics, captivity, moral ambiguity and references to murder

summary: she locked him up, or so she thought. terry wanted to be caught. and he liked the way she looked at him through the bars.

vibe: hannibal meets loki-in-the-glass-box meets joe goldberg. he’s behind glass, but he’s always in control. psychological cat-and-mouse, only she's the mouse who thinks she’s the cat.

word count: 3.3K

a/n: no taglist on this one because i'm not sure that this is everyone's cup of tea.. but i hope this is what you were looking for anon 🫶🏾

The room was sterile. No sharp edges. No handles. No metal exposed beyond what was absolutely necessary. Every fixture had been scrutinised, every panel engineered to strip a person of leverage, of power, of hope.

The lighting buzzed overhead - cold, clinical, inescapable. White fluorescence that flattened every angle, turned skin sallow, eyes glassy. It should’ve been the kind of space designed to crush someone like him.

But he looked comfortable.

Terry Richmond sat perfectly still in the centre of the observation room - legs spread lazily, hands cuffed to the bolted chair behind him, head tilted slightly like he’d been expecting company. Not a twitch. Not a slouch. His back remained impossibly straight, like he wasn’t just tolerating the restraints but performing for them.

He wasn’t bruised. Wasn’t panicked. Not a single scratch on him. The orderlies said he didn’t resist when they brought him in. Didn’t speak. Barely blinked.

And when she stepped into the room, clipboard tucked against her chest, trying to keep her pulse from betraying her —

He smiled.

A slow, wolfish curve of his mouth that didn’t belong to a man who had been captured. It belonged to someone who had allowed it.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like warm molasses. “Miss me?”

She didn’t answer. Not right away. She couldn’t.

Her shoes echoed across the smooth floor, the only sound between them besides the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low crackle of the mic feed. The glass wall between them stretched floor to ceiling - reinforced, shatterproof, unyielding - yet the weight of his gaze pressed through like heat.

She moved to the other side of the glass, stopped exactly seven feet away - the legal minimum. Any closer required full restraints, full observation, full clearance.

He watched her the entire way. Like a hawk. Like a predator who didn’t need his claws to be dangerous.

His wrists were bound. His ankles, too. All precautions she had signed off on herself. Triple-checked. Terry Richmond had been a ghost - a methodical killer who left bodies posed like artwork, the calling cards always just cryptic enough to suggest obsession, never enough to suggest target.

Until she read the patterns between the lines. Until the messages started to feel personal.

The composition of each scene. The significance of the locations. A flower from her hometown. A book she'd once written a thesis on. The way every victim resembled someone she used to know.

Until it became obvious: He wanted her to find him.

And now here he was.

Caged. Supposedly.

And yet every time she looked at him, it was her who felt stripped bare.

“You don’t get to speak unless I ask you something,” she finally said, clipboard held a little tighter than necessary. “Understood?”

He leaned forward. The restraints strained just slightly, enough to remind her he was, technically, under control. But the way he moved, the glint in his eye, told a different story.

He licked his bottom lip, slow. Deliberate. “You came all this way just to play dress-up, baby girl?”

“Terry.”

“You wore the lipstick I like.”

Her jaw clenched. She hadn’t. Not intentionally.

But he was right.

He always was.

Terry never raised his voice. Never struggled. Never made a show of resistance.

He simply spoke in calm, syrupy tones - each word a drop of heat sliding under her skin, burrowing deep, finding places she didn’t know were soft. Didn’t want to know.

She interrogated him daily. Always the same seat. The same distance. The same rehearsed control.

A clipboard in her lap. A stopwatch ticking beside her. Procedure as armour.

He gave nothing. Not unless she gave something first.

At first, it was harmless. Minor concessions. A pause when she should have pressed. Letting him talk longer than protocol allowed. Laughing once when he said something unexpectedly dry.

Leaving her jacket behind on purpose. Maybe just to see if he’d notice.

And he did.

He began to notice things. Little things.

How she wore her hair differently on anxious days, clipped back when she needed discipline, down when she felt tired and exposed. How her breath hitched - barely audible, but unmistakable, when she read certain words aloud from his case file. The ones tied to ritual. To obsession. To violence wrapped in longing.

He catalogued her the way he had his victims. But she wasn’t prey. Not yet.

She was an equation. A puzzle.

And Terry Richmond loved puzzles.

He began to tilt the interviews - pushing gently, methodically. A look held too long. A question phrased like curiosity but delivered like temptation. Until it wasn’t about his crimes anymore. Until it wasn’t about the victims.

It was about her.

And then came the questions. Questions he had no business asking. Questions that didn’t belong in an interview room. Questions that felt more like… confessions.

“You ever make yourself come while thinking about me in here?” he asked one afternoon, voice thick with amusement, eyes glinting just behind the glass.

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

The pen in her hand stilled mid-note. Her pulse thudded loud in her ears, drowning out the hum of the recording equipment.

He smiled. Slow. Patient. Like he already knew.

“What were you wearing when you read my file?” he drawled, watching her like a man watching a fire catch. “Did you touch yourself, or did you just imagine what I’d do to you if I wasn’t behind this glass?”

Her fingers curled just slightly tighter around her pen. But she didn’t leave. Didn’t report the breach.

And from his chair shackled, restrained, supposedly caged - Terry simply watched. And waited.

Because she hadn’t told him to stop.

And he knew she wouldn’t.

It started small. Harmless, even.

She lingered a little longer after each session. Asked one more question than necessary. Let her eyes trace the line of his jaw when she thought he wasn’t looking.

She told herself it was tactical. That she was watching him closely. That his micro-expressions mattered. But then she started wearing lipstick. A softer red, just enough to feel… intentional. Then darker. Deeper. The kind that left faint smudges on paper coffee cups. And maybe, just maybe, on the rim of a pen she passed between her fingers while questioning him.

She wore lower necklines. Not scandalous. Just slightly less severe. Just enough to feel it when his gaze dipped, slowly, deliberately.

And Terry noticed. Every. Single. Time.

His gaze didn’t linger. It devoured. Not with hunger. With knowing.

Like he’d seen this before. Like he’d planned this.

The glass between them stopped feeling like a barrier. It became a mirror.

And all she saw in it was her own want - staring back, reflected in the eyes of the man she was supposed to control.

He never begged. Never pressed.

He invited. Lured. Opened the door and waited to see if she’d step through it.

And somehow, it was her who started bending the rules. Little ones at first. Just to test. Just to push.

She let him speak off-record. Just once. Then again.

She came outside of protocol hours. Told herself it was for “observation.” For “data.” Told herself no one needed to know.

She sat closer. Then closer still. Crossed one leg over the other. Noticed the way his eyes flicked down, then back up - never hurried, always composed.

Until the glass no longer felt safe. Until the idea of his voice in her ear felt more intimate than touch.

His words changed, too. He started weaving double meanings into every sentence. His voice coiled around her like smoke - thick, warm, inescapable.

“I can’t touch you from here, baby,” he murmured one evening, low and velvet-slick, a knife hidden beneath every syllable. “But I can make you fall apart anyway.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Because he was right. She already had.

The spiral had begun. And she was no longer sure whose hands had started turning it. Worse - she wanted to keep falling. Especially if it was his voice waiting at the bottom.

It didn’t happen all at once. The unravelling was slow. Surgical.

Precise, like the man himself.

He only spoke when she gave him something first. Never demanded. Never pushed. Just waited. Patient, quiet, coiled like smoke behind glass.

“Tell me a secret,” he said once, voice low, lazy. “One you’ve never told anyone. Then I’ll tell you where I left her body.”

And she did. She didn’t even hesitate.

The words tumbled out in a hush, too fast, too unguarded. She wasn’t sure who she was trying to impress or confess to. She just wanted him to keep looking at her like that. Like he knew her.

She didn’t remember when the lines blurred. But they had. Somewhere between her long nights and longer stares, between the click of her heels and the soft, slow drawl of his voice calling her back again. And again.

She stopped calling him Mr. Richmond. Formalities cracked under the heat of his gaze.

He called her darlin’. Sweetheart. My good girl.

Every time he said it, something in her stomach fluttered. Tight. Wrong. Addictive. It wasn’t affection. Not really. It was control. Drenched in honey, cloaked in charm, but still control.

He never touched her. But he didn’t need to.

His words filled in the spaces where his hands couldn’t go.

One night, when the lights were dim and the reinforced glass gleamed with twin reflections - her lips parted, his head tilted in that always-ready calm; he leaned forward. Calm as anything. Calculated, as always.

“Put your hand under the table.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t ask why.

“Now sit on it.”

And she obeyed. Like she always did.

The chair creaked beneath her. Her thighs tensed. Heat bloomed in her chest and pooled low in her belly. She kept her eyes forward, but he saw everything.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he said, voice dipped in hunger, low and thick like honey warmed on the stove, “when you imagine it’s mine.”

She trembled. Bit her lip. Said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

The silence between them vibrated, thick with want, shame, power.

He made her fall apart like that. Knees clamped together. Breath shaky. Shame burning under her skin like a fever she didn’t want to break.

And through it all, he watched.

Cool. Composed. Unmoving.

A man shackled and caged. And yet somehow still the one in control.

He never touched her. Not once.

But it was already too late.

She’d let him in. Not with a key. But a confession.

And he knew it. He’d always known.

They called it a controlled interaction. A trial run. Monitored. Supervised. Contained.

Every word was meant to suggest safety - layers of oversight, forms signed in triplicate, a room designed to neutralise danger.

No glass this time. Just four walls. One table. Two chairs. And him.

Unshackled, save for the thick cuffs looped to the base of the bolted-down table. A gesture of caution. A gesture of control.

He looked… serene. Almost reverent. As though this moment had been prophesied, and he had simply waited for the world to catch up.

She told herself it was protocol. That he’d earned this after weeks of compliance. That proximity didn’t mean permission.

But when she crossed the threshold, when her shoes sank into the silence and her body moved on automatic, she felt it the shift.

She sat. He watched. And in that single, unwavering moment, when his eyes found hers, dark, steady, devouring - she forgot why she ever thought distance had mattered at all.

His gaze was a gravity well. And she, foolish and human, kept stepping closer.

The silence stretched between them, thick and pulsing, like breath held too long. It wasn’t awkward. It was intentional.

Then slowly and deliberately, he leaned forward.

Not enough to breach the unspoken line between them. Just enough to make sure she could feel it. The heat of him. The nearness. The way his breath stirred the tiny hairs at her neck, sent a full-body ache humming through her chest like a memory.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss. Just breathed her in like she was his first taste of freedom.

And she let him.

“You don’t want me free,” he murmured, voice a growl beneath velvet. “That’d be too easy.”

His tone was all sin and certainty - not smug but assured. A man who’d read the last page of a book long before she even opened the cover.

She stayed still. Barely.

A single twitch of her hand. A tightening in her throat. Her eyes dropped, then lifted and dragged back to him like tide to the moon.

“You like knowing I could take you…” he continued, voice low, hypnotic.

His gaze flicked downward - not to her lips, but to her throat. To the place where her pulse betrayed her. Where it jumped, visibly.

“…but you let me wait.”

The words sank between them like ink into paper - irreversible, permanent.

And God help her, he was right.

Not because she feared him. But because somewhere deep inside, shameful and throbbing, she wanted him to be the one to cross the line.

And worse still… she wanted to let him.

She unlocked one wrist.

It was supposed to be procedural. A test of trust. Supervised. Temporary.

Every measure in place had been agreed upon - clearance signed, surveillance confirmed, every heartbeat accounted for. It should’ve felt clinical. Bounded. Safe.

But the second the cuff clicked open - a sharp, final sound that seemed to echo too loud in the still room, his hand shot up to catch hers.

Not violently. But firm. Possessive.

It was the kind of grip that wasn’t born from panic or impulse, but planning. He held her as if he knew she would allow it.

And she had.

He kissed her knuckles like a gentleman - lips soft, reverent, almost mocking. But the way he gripped them… that was no courtesy. That was a warning dressed in silk.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he guided her down onto his lap.

No command. No plea. Just intention.

And she let him.

The cameras caught it. They must have. But in that moment, she didn’t care. Couldn’t.

One hand still chained to the table. One hand free to ruin her.

And yet somehow, it was her who moved like she had the power.

She straddled him slow, deliberate, thighs tightening around his hips as if anchoring herself to a storm she had no chance of surviving. Her fingers pressed into his shoulders, not for balance, but to remind herself that she was choosing this.

Choosing him.

She rocked against him with the illusion of control - rhythm steady, spine straight - like she was orchestrating the encounter. But every time he growled, low and feral, every time he bit into her skin like a claim, breath hot against her neck like fire at the fuse... she remembered:

She never had been in control.

Not really.

His mouth found her jaw first, then her collarbone, then the hollow beneath her ear. Each kiss a brand. Each bruise a declaration.

He didn’t speak at first. He devoured.

Then, lips brushing her pulse point, he rasped: “You want to cum?”

The voice was syrupy. Sacrilegious. A sin served in velvet.

“Use me for it.”

She shivered.

Her hands curled into his shirt, gripping tight, grounding herself as much as claiming him.

“You don’t even have to let me finish,” he murmured against her throat. His free hand gripped her hip, hard enough to ache. “Just leave me like this. Begging. Desperate. Caged.”

And she almost did.

Because the way he moaned for her, quiet but guttural, like it scraped up from somewhere primal. The way his teeth clenched, eyes wide and ravenous like he was both starving and thankful to be starved - it was punishment enough.

Torture wrapped in reverence.

Biting. Bruising. Bruised knees. Bruised egos. Bruised morality.

Her movements grew more ragged. His voice dropped into something darker.

Praise spilled from his lips between snarls and whimpers.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it.” A tremble in his jaw. A twitch in his bound wrist. “Use your favourite monster. Make me your fucking ruin.”

And she did. Again. And again.

Until there was no question of who had surrendered first. And no doubt that he would never stop waiting for her to do it again.

The sex had been her undoing. The final piece he needed.

He hadn’t just wanted her body; he wanted her addiction. Her loyalty. Her testimony. Her surrender.

And she gave it to him - day by day, breath by breath - each sigh slipping past her lips like a secret she thought he didn’t already know.

But Terry Richmond had known everything. Planned everything.

Every visit. Every glance. Every angle of his voice. Every subtle arch of his brow. The exact tilt of his head when she’d walk in with a file tucked against her chest like a shield. Even the camera blind spots, the ones she’d insisted were coincidence. They weren’t.

He knew the boundaries she would cross before she did. Knew exactly how much rope to give her before she’d tie it into her own noose and call it devotion.

Every protocol she broke, she’d justified. Just this once. Just this risk. Just this man.

She thought she’d kept him caged. That he was hers because he stayed.

But he’d made the cage comfortable on purpose. A place she could return to. A place where he waited – steady and knowing while she convinced herself she still had control.

She hadn’t just let him in. She’d brought him in. Offered him a place beneath her skin, behind her rules, inside the one part of her that had always been off-limits: her certainty.

Let herself feel safe. Special. Wanted.

And that— That was his favourite part.

Some said the glass had always been two-way. That he recorded her confessions. Her trembling. Her moans. Played them back while she slept, whispering memories back into her own body like lullabies dressed in shame.

Others said it was worse, That she’d let him out. Just once. Just for a moment.

A moment of real touch. Of breath. Of whispered ruin traced down the curve of her throat with lips she should’ve never let near her.

And now?

Now the cell was empty.

She sat alone in the chair where he’d once waited, still warm from the last time she’d crossed every line that mattered. The same position. The same table. The same silence. But now, it rang hollow.

The cuffs she’d undone herself had left a faint ache around her wrists. Not from force but from memory. From the weight of choosing him. Again and again.

The glass in front of her was smudged with fingerprints, her fingerprints like a ghost pressed into the room. A history written in oil and breath.

And there it was. A folded piece of paper left behind. Crisp. Precise. Neat handwriting. No signature.

Just one sentence:

“Don’t let me out… unless you’re ready to be mine.”

And she had.

God help her, she had been ready. Too ready.

Had opened the door not with ignorance but with something worse. Hope.

And now?

Now he was gone.

No alarms. No breach. No noise at all. Just absence, echoing like a verdict.

But he’d left a part of himself behind. Inside her. In her breath. Her memory. Her rules rewritten in his voice.

She thought she could close the door again. Thought she could sit still, go silent, play penance in his place.

But Terry Richmond didn’t need walls to haunt a woman. He didn’t need chains to keep her his.

She’d given him the key. She’d let him in. And now, even in his absence…

He was everywhere.

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾

#ruewrites #terry richmond #terry richmond x black!oc #terry richmond x black!reader #terry richmond fic #terry richmond x black oc #terry richmond smut #terry richmond x dark!reader #dark!terry richmond x black!reader #dark!terry richmond #terry richmond x dark!black!reader #terryrichmond #aaron pierre #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre x black reader #aaron pierre x black!reader #aaronpierre #aaron pierre fic #aaron pierre smut

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simplyholl · 1 year ago

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Three’s Company

Summary: While on a mission, a mysterious substance makes you incredibly horny.

Pairing: Loki x Bucky x F. Reader

Warnings: Smut. Minors DNI. 18+ ONLY. Threesome. MMF. Sex Pollen.

See my Masterlist Here

You knew you’d made a mistake as soon as you left the boys behind. Loki and Bucky were teasing you about how you had gotten captured so easily on the last mission. It was a sore subject for you, and you didn’t want to talk about it.

You walked faster down the dark corridor, turning quickly into the first room on your left. They called after you to wait for them. You should have listened. The door slammed shut behind you, the lights coming on as the ceiling sprayed a red foggy substance on you.

Your mission partners rushed to the room as soon as they heard the door clang shut. They could see inside through the small square window in the center. They made it in time to see you duck down, attempting to shield your face from the assault.

They yelled for you, Bucky’s vibranium arm pounding against the door. The door swings open, both of them running inside, the red fog surrounding the three of you. Loki was the first to grab you when it cleared. Both of them checking you out from head to toe. “What was that?” Bucky asked, concern etched on his features.

“I’m not sure.” You almost whisper. “I think it was just a scare tactic. I feel fine.” They nodded in agreement. Everything seemed to be normal. When they were sure that you were okay, they continued the mission. On the way home, you called Bruce letting him know what happened. He said he would look into it, but you didn’t have any symptoms. So he put it at the bottom of his to do list.

An hour after you made it back, you felt like you were on fire. You were thirsty, your skin tingled, and you were extremely horny. You tried taking care of it yourself, but it made it worse. You thought about calling Bruce to tell him your symptoms, but it was embarrassing. You didn’t know how you could look him in the eye tomorrow after telling him you were the horniest you had ever been.

You decide to go down to the kitchen for an ice pack when you hear noises coming from inside Loki’s room. You stop in the hallway, walking over to his door, you press your ear to it. You hear Loki moan. You have to admit, you’re jealous. Had he figured out that you can’t get rid of this ache by yourself? Or did he already have plans with someone tonight? After another moan fills your ears, your panties become unbearably wet.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You know it’s rude to just barge in, but you can’t help it. You turn the doorknob hoping that it’s unlocked. Luckily, it turns. You let yourself in, closing it quietly behind you. You freeze when your eyes land on the hottest thing you have ever seen. Loki is sitting on the edge of his bed with Bucky knelt between his legs.

Loki’s fingers are tangled in Bucky’s hair as Bucky works him with his mouth. Loki looks up when he hears you gasp. “We were wondering when you would join us.” He smiles, throwing his head back as Bucky takes him deeper. You walk over to the bed. “You need a partner for the cure, or partners.” Loki winks. “We figured it out only moments ago.” His grip on Bucky tightens as he spills down his throat.

You felt like you were going to burst into flames. “Get on the bed.” Bucky commands, wiping his mouth with the back of his flesh hand. You quickly rid yourself of all your clothes before laying down. Both of them hover over you like predators. You’ve never felt so small. Bucky latches onto the sensitive skin on your collarbone while Loki rolls your nipples between his fingers.

Bucky kisses gently up your neck, nipping at your jaw before lowering his mouth to yours. He kisses you hungrily. When his tongue meets yours, you taste Loki. You moan, pulling him closer to you trying to savor it. You suck his tongue, your hormones going into overdrive. What was that red substance? Why did it have you acting this way?

Bucky breaks the kiss to lay beside you. “Sit on my face, doll.” You lower yourself onto him, his metal arm wrapping around your waste to keep you in place. Loki kisses down Bucky’s stomach, stopping at his cock. His tongue swirls around the head before closing his lips around him. He bobs his head, as he takes him to the back of his throat.

Bucky’s moans vibrate against you as he sucks on your clit. You aren’t sure where to look. Bucky looks so hot, fucked out underneath you. But Loki swallowing Bucky’s dick is unbearably sexy, so you focus there. Loki’s eyes shine mischievously when he notices you watching him. His hand on Bucky’s hip tightens as his nose brushes Bucky’s patch of dark curls.

Bucky licks at you, but you can tell he is too distracted to get you off. You don’t mind, you’re enjoying the show. Loki sucks his cheeks in, his hand rubbing the back of Bucky’s thigh. Loki inserts a finger into Bucky, sucking for all he’s worth. You feel Bucky tremble beneath you as he shatters for Loki.

Loki releases him with a pop, his attention now on you. You remove yourself from Bucky, hoping one of them will take pity on you and get you off. You feel faint, the fire like symptoms are almost too much. Loki gets on the bed, you notice he and Bucky are still hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, one is a god and the other is a super soldier. Plus, whatever you all had been infected with had to be assisting in that department. You were used to two pump chumps who finished and rolled over, snoring before you could get your vibrator out of your bedside table.

“I’ll have to take care of you since the soldier couldn’t do his job properly. He seemed awfully distracted.” Loki jests, raising an eyebrow at Bucky. He settles between your legs as Bucky tries to defend his self. Loki bites the inside of your thigh, smiling wickedly as he gets closer to where you need him. You almost jolt off the bed when his tongue descends on you for the first time. Bucky lines himself up behind Loki, fucking into him. Unlike Bucky, Loki’s attention doesn’t falter. His talented tongue sweeps and glides, you writhe underneath him.

Bucky’s flesh hand is on Loki’s shoulder while his metal arm is wrapped around Loki’s torso. You watch as Bucky thrusts into him, the sound of skin slapping and ragged breathing filling the room. Loki licks your clit upward, closing his lips tightly around it. He suckles you as Bucky finishes inside him. You wrap your legs tightly around his head, his mess of curls falling on your stomach and thighs. One last flick of his talented tongue sends you soaring.

Your symptoms subside, but you still feel the heat threatening to come back. Loki must be in the same situation, he lays on his back, motioning for you to ride him. You hop on, hands gripping his shoulders. Bucky sits beside Loki looking exhausted. “That’s it, doll. Take all of him.” Bucky encourages you as you roll your hips, Loki uses his grip on you to set the pace.

You lower yourself over and over again. Loki’s cock hits the right spot every time. It was delicious, the way you fit together, Bucky singing your praises, the way Loki looked at you while you were riding him. It was too much and not enough at the same time. Loki tilted his hips, the angle sent both of you over the edge. When you were finished, any trace of the illness was gone. You lay cuddled together, limbs tangled, enjoying the moment.

Tags

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sunarryn · 3 months ago

Text

DP X Marvel #18

Dan Phantom had been grounded for a millennium. A million years of suspended animation, locked in the coldest prison the Infinite Realms could provide, where time dripped like sap and the echoes of his own murderous past whispered lullabies into his ears. It had been fair punishment for ripping his original timeline to pieces like confetti at a funeral. He’d deserved it. Probably. Maybe. Not really.

Regardless, he was out now.

On probation.

Which meant he couldn’t technically destroy anything major.

Which meant he technically had freedom.

Which meant—

Dan burst through the veil between dimensions with the violent grace of a dying star and made a beeline—no, a comet-line—for Asgard.

Why? Simple.

Because Loki Odinson existed.

And Dan was going to court him.

With intention.

And possibly fire.

And maybe a few stolen artifacts from the Vault of Eternity.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Odin Allfather, great and wise and absolutely exhausted, nearly choked on his mead when a 6’9” white-haired, blood-eyed menace of a man fell from a tear in reality and landed in the center of Asgard’s Golden Hall, bleeding ambient chaos and making Thor drop Mjolnir mid-rep.

“I AM DAN PHANTOM, PRINCE OF THE INFINITE REALMS!” Dan announced, fangs bared in what could be interpreted as a smile—or a declaration of war. “I HAVE COME TO COURT YOUR SON.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

A holy shit what is happening one.

“Which one?” Odin asked slowly, glancing between Thor and Loki.

Dan turned, eyes glowing with the light of a billion dead stars, and locked onto Loki like a predator sensing a god-shaped snack.

“That one,” he said, voice low and reverent, gesturing toward Loki with a clawed finger. “The dark prince. The bitter frost. The storm in the still. The god carved in hunger and ash. The one whose smile haunts the black spaces between galaxies. You.”

Loki blinked. “…I’m sorry, what?”

Thor, meanwhile, had instinctively shoved his brother behind him and picked up Mjolnir. “He’s clearly mad. A danger to Asgard!”

Dan didn’t even look at him. “I’ve fought worse things than thunder, little boy. I would pluck the sun from Sól’s chariot and offer it like an apple in your brother’s palm.”

Odin stood up. “I forbid this! I don’t know what corner of Hel you’ve crawled from, but you will not—”

“Oh, actually,” Dan interrupted, tilting his head in thought. “Hela and I are old friends. She braided my hair once and taught me how to decapitate a frost giant using only a jawbone.”

In the bleak frost of Hel, Hela laughed so hard she cracked a rib. Her skeletal horde stared at her with a mix of reverence and terror as she shouted, “My brother-in-arms is finally out of time jail! Get me a death-swan, I need to pick a dress. I’m gonna be the best-damned best woman this side of Ragnarok.”

Back in Asgard, Loki had been dragged to a secluded room by Frigga who kept whispering things like “He’s clearly unstable” and “You attract danger like a frostflower attracts flies.”

But Loki was not listening.

Because Loki was already halfway in love.

He was a connoisseur of madness and beauty, of poetry stitched in blood, of things ancient and unfathomable. He saw Dan Phantom’s sharpened fangs and glowing eyes and heard the way he whispered promises of devotion that sounded like death threats.

And he felt something.

Dan knelt in Loki’s chamber, holding a gift in outstretched hands.

“This is the heart of a fallen titan,” Dan said solemnly. “I carved it from his chest after he insulted your intellect.”

It was still beating.

Loki took it and blushed.

“…You’re insane,” he whispered.

Dan leaned closer. “I have watched a thousand dying universes collapse, and in each one, I saw your reflection in the shattered light. I have dreamt of you while floating through collapsed stars. I would slit the throat of time itself for the curl of your smile.”

Frigga burst into the room. “Loki, don’t encourage him!”

But Loki was already petting the heart like a kitten and looking at Dan like he hung the stars in the sky personally.

“I think I might love him,” Loki whispered.

“Oh no,” Frigga said.

Three weeks in, the betting pool had gone viral in the Infinite Realms.

Danny bet Loki would stab Dan by day five.

Jazz bet they’d elope in less than a month.

Dani bet both. Simultaneously.

Clockwork refused to comment.

Dan brought gifts every day.

A Valkyrie’s wing, still twitching.

A singing skull that whispered Loki’s name in every language known to god and ghost.

A crystal vial of Odin’s tears (he didn’t explain how he got them, just that he did, and Odin now had anxiety).

A necklace forged from the melted-down bones of a time-wyrm, engraved with love poetry in the lost language of the Void.

“Your gifts are… unsettling,” Loki said, holding up the skull as it crooned a lullaby in Abyssal.

“They’re tokens of devotion,” Dan replied. “I would make war with the gods for you—not for justice, not for vengeance, but for worship.”

Loki melted on the spot.

Odin cornered Loki one evening. “You must stop this.”

“But father, I love him!”

“He brought you a bouquet of spinal cords, Loki!”

“They were beautifully arranged!”

Eventually, Dan seduced Loki in the way that only an interdimensional menace with apocalyptic charm could. The kind of night that left the Bifröst cracked, Thor traumatized, and half of Asgard whispering in awe and fear.

Loki didn’t walk the next day. He floated.

Odin cried in private.

The wedding was held in Hel. Of course it was.

Hela presided in a gown made of grief and velvet, surrounded by undead musicians and skeletal bridesmaids.

“I now pronounce you harbingers of doom,” Hela intoned with a grin. “You may now kiss your ruin.”

Dan did so with gusto.

Odin fainted.

Thor refused to speak for three weeks.

Frigga gave up and drank with Jazz, who won the betting pool.

Danny and Dani got into a fistfight over who gave the better toast.

On their wedding night, Dan carved a poem into the sky using a blade of starlight and sorrow. It read:

“Let the worlds tremble and the stars scream. You are mine. My ruin, my resurrection. My frost in the flame. My apocalypse wrapped in silk and venom. I have no name but yours, and no destiny but your hand in mine. Until the gods are dust.”

Loki wept.

Then kissed him breathless.

Then demanded they destroy a few realms for fun.

Dan beamed.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

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mischiefmaker615 · 2 months ago

Text

Like You Mean It (Loki Love Story) Ch.1

Summary: You accidently teleport into a book- not knowing it's smut and come face to face with Loki who is very much convinced on keeping you from returning home

Rated: R *dark warning*(DARK ELEMENTS!)

Theme Song/Inspiration: "Like You Mean It" by Steven Rodriguez

Your eyes fluttered open, still feeling a bit dizzy but it was normal when you first phase in. It took a moment to realize why it was still dark before finding there were covers over your head. Strange.. you’ve never really woken up in a bed before, it’s usually more normal settings like in a garden or on a couch.. as far as most Loki stories go that you chose from... You supposed that’s what you got for deciding to pick a story at RANDOM this time- since this one got chosen from the internet.

You had discovered this power one day at random- wishing you could just.. disappear and escape from the hell you called home life. Ironically, you had been holding a book at that same time and within a blink of an eye- teleported in it!

It was scary at first, and many panic attacks had followed accordingly before you figured out quietly how it all worked. You replaced the main character- you could do whatever you wanted, and despite following the storyline or not, all you had to do was concentrate and wish to be home again.

No place like home bullshit.

Bravery consumed you and dared going through practically your whole bedroom library. You’ve been on so many adventures and was wise to still with ‘safe’ books. There was no way in Hel you’d choose your horror genre. It wasn’t to long after, that you discovered that by holding your phone- as if it were a book, you could even phase onto online literature!

Fan fiction there you went! And what better books to enter, than fluff galore with your character dream man god Loki!

You inhaled deeply, your body having been relaxed in.. probably the most comfortable bed you’ve ever been on and that covers held that perfect weight where you felt safe, warm and cozy. What met your senses though was the familiarity of pine and musk, masculinity making itself know before you took in the whole picture-

You were naked.

Your body sat up quickly with a start, hands flying to keep the sheets around your chest while light flooded your sight, making you blink to clear your vision. Looking around, you found to be in some sort of large royal bedroom. Kind of a Victorian style but more hints of Greek, there was gold everywhere and most of the fabric held a dark forest green to it- drapes, carpet and the very blanket that weighed your body down. There was a fire started in the corner, a tray on the small table with a cover over it and a few books scattered about on the couch nearby.

Slowly crawling out of bed, you moved cautiously as if you were prey- hiding from whatever predator was following you. This must be a fluff book.. yeah- perhaps a time skip happened.. Though you’ve never found yourself nude before, in any Fluff book so far. You clutched the bedsheet tightly around yourself and looked around, eyes widening more and more when realization consumed you to realize you knew nothing of this plot still. That in itself made you move faster over to the large wardrobe to take care of your first concern.

The heavy wood creaked, having to make a small effort to pull it open fully before you were presented by an assortment of clothes, all sporting a bit of green, gold and black.. all for men. They were too big where you’d be swimming in it just as much as you already were with the bed sheet. It was clear you were in Loki’s room, his scent having been the first hint, then the colors and it was obvious now that you must be in the palace of Asgard.

Relatively in each story you’ve been in, Asgard works and looks the same way. So.. there had to be some maids scurrying about the halls, right? If you two.. did have sex (before this time skip you kept convincing yourself of).. you’d think he’d be a gentleman enough to leave you some clothes before he had left you here.. whenever he went.

The very thought made you blush even more- the fact that you had been naked.. but not really, but when you see him it’s as if he did see you? Shit.. this is what made phasing through stories confusing.. where you did things but not really did things but people acted like you did things.. so the fact that Loki is around here, having seen you naked.. what were you to expect if he returned? You never had time skipped before.. would it be like a blink before you’d wake in the next scene? Or.. was this actually a… no no no- There’s no way in Hel this could have been one of those.. smut fics you had heard about.. being naked was just one huge.. coincidence..

That little voice in your head came back, often telling you that you were playing with fire every time you phased into a book.. but you couldn’t help yourself! Reading was your life anyway, it just so happened that this whole power thing happened by accident.. much like other people’s addictions out there- you just wished there had been an instruction manual years ago. So first things first- get dressed.

There would have to be a maid around here somewhere..

Moving towards the door, your feet sunk into the soft carpet with every step while the heat of the fire created goosebumps along your skin. Royals really did live in luxury, and you found yourself spoiled half the time whenever you returned to your regular old life. Clutching the sheet tighter to yourself, you drew in a breath and reached for the knob.

The door was locked.

Raising a brow, you tried again, even pulling on the handle just to double check you weren’t as weak as you thought you were. Still locked, your heart began to race as you slowly backed away from the door and your eyes moved faster around the room again. No clothes.. what if Loki entered? This was his damn room after all.. shitshitshit-

You quickly ran to the bathroom, jumping a little at how cold the marble met your feet before you shut the door behind you and leaned your back against it. Of course, this door didn’t have a lock. There was no way you’d be able to hold it closed when everyone in this entire realm basically had the strength of the gods. Asgardians..

Your eyes rose and took in the huge bathroom. The large stone bathtub illuminated with the sunlight coming from the window beside it and could hold at least six people easily. The sink was built for two- a his and hers style. Towels fluffy and shampoos radiating their fragrances without even being opened yet. Out of all that, you opted to grab the hairbrush- it’s handle gold and hard enough to.. maybe hurt- just encase..

Fluff not smut.. fluff not smut.. fluff not smut…

What were you doing.. assuming the storyline was going to put you in danger? If anything, you might be compromising your entire self by threatening whoever you saw first and now your in a bigger mess by possibly insulting a royal. You ran your fingers through your loose hair, a nervous habit you adopted when your skin began to feel tingly with stressed.

“good morning darling-‘’

That voice.. that familiar voice came out in almost a sing song-ish, happy tone where it seemed to give you hope that perhaps you weren’t in danger. Loki’s voice.. the soft and silky tone you loved in.. who knows how many stories you’ve been in. Luckily by its muffles, you could tell he was in the bathroom and not in the large bathroom you’d probably have to explore to make sure a person wasn’t actually in here. Regardless, you leaned forward to check around to make sure he really wasn’t in here before the jingle of the handle beside you confirmed his whereabouts.

You were still naked.

‘’darling? are you in the bathroom?”

Fuck.

AHHH first chapter is out! LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO CONTINUE BEING TAGGED. Been planning this one for awhile (other books/one shots will continue to be made/updated). More Related "Book Mention" Content~

"You're So Dark" "Literature Lurking" "Gif Skit" "The Selection"

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hopelesslygaysstuff · 9 months ago

Text

October 12 - Knife Play

pairing: dom!Natasha x sub!Reader

summary: Natasha interrogates you, and you have fun.

content warnings: knife, restraints

word count: 2.1k+

masterlist

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

You looked up through your eyelashes, eyes hard, and locked on the figure slowly moving towards you from across the room. You felt your heart jump slightly as deft fingers slowly slid a knife out of its holder.

The shiny silver metal glinted slightly underneath the singular lamp illuminating the room. If you had to guess, you were somewhere near the coast in a warehouse. The faint sounds of waves breaking sounded out, muffled from the walls. You were tied to a chair, your wrists cuffed in front of you on a solid metal table.

The table was bolted down, you’d already tried to flip it earlier, your muscles protesting from the effort of your attempt. So you’d conserved your energy, knowing you’d need it once the Black Widow arrived.

And here she was, looking almost exactly the same as the last time you’d run into her. That was four months ago, but if she and her Avenger friends were anything, they were persistent. It was rather annoying, actually.

“You changed your hair,” you say, leaning back as far as you can while chained. Your nonchalant demeanor pisses her off, you can tell by the slight twitch in her left eye.

Natasha ignores your comment, her dark green eyes locked on yours as she moves closer. She looks like a predator who’s finally caught its prey, and you’d be lying if the look in her eye didn’t send pleasant shivers down your spine.

“I’ve finally caught you,” Natasha murmurs, stopping right next to you and leaning against the table. If you were able to move your hands, you’d be able to touch her thigh. Even so, the heat radiating from her body warms your fingers. “It was laughably easy.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you chuckle, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you notice the way her lips purse at the name. “You only caught me because I wanted you to.”

“Okay I’ll bite,” Natasha says, crossing her arms. “Why did you want to be caught?”

Smiling, you wait a moment before responding, letting your eyes trail over the muscles you can see beneath her Black Widow suit. “Because I had so much fun last time, don’t you remember?”

Looking back at her face, you watch as she clenches her jaw slightly. Another one of her tells. You’re certain that she’s remembering the way you flirted with her, your fingers grazing her body as you fought, distracting her enough that you were able to slip away once your planned diversion happened.

“You blew up one of our training facilities just to get away from me,” she says, her eyes hard even as they glance down slightly.

You lick your lips, smirking at her. You’d purposefully worn a button-up shirt, leaving one too many buttons undone. A lacy black and red bra peeked out just underneath the fabric, and you love the way Natasha’s breath stuttered slightly when she caught sight of it.

“Nobody was inside,” you say, your words flippant. “Besides, you know I love a dramatic exit.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at that, and you’re careful to not smile too widely. God, it’s so exhilarating to get her to lower her guard.

“Why are you messing with SHIELD?” Her voice is softer at this question, and if you weren’t utterly convinced that she hated you, you’d hear the concern woven through her words.

This time, you make sure your face is serious. Natasha sits up straighter, knowing the next words out of your mouth are going to be nothing but the truth. “SHIELD has caused nothing but pain, always claiming to protect the public. Who was the cause of all of the problems they’ve fought for the public?”

You wait for a few seconds, watching Natasha’s face as the realization sets in.

“That's right, SHIELD. When Loki tried to take over the world and let those aliens into New York, why was he on Earth? Right, because SHIELD wanted to use the Tesseract to build better weapons. What they don’t realize is that by trying to use powerful items that aren’t meant to be on Earth, they’re inviting those threats to our world at the expense of citizens just trying to live their lives.”

You finish your rant, breathing heavily for a moment while Natasha watches you. Regaining your composure, you smile at her. It's dazzling and bright, and it throws her off.

“But the better answer is that I just wanted to see you, малышка.”

Natasha blinks, scoffing at your pet name. She fiddles with her knife for a moment, before looking back up. “They’ve sent me in here to get answers from you.”

“I know,” you respond easily, cracking your neck before settling back into your chair. “But you and I both know that I won’t give you anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” she murmurs, and your heart rate spikes when those dark green eyes glance down at your chest again. This time, they don’t move.

The knife in her hand slowly drags along the metal table, the sound grating your ears for a moment. You grimace in annoyance, looking up at Natasha with a cold look. She smirks at you, bringing the knife to your fingertips.

“First question,” she whispers, the knife gently running along your hands and forearms. “What is your real name?”

“Aww why, so you can put me in your contacts to call later?”

Natasha drags the knife slightly deeper, creating a shallow cut on the back of your hand. “Wrong answer,” she says, her lips inches from your ear. Her tongue peeks out, licking the shell of your ear while you shiver beneath her.

The knife drags further up your body, grazing your hard nipple before the cold metal rests on your sternum. Pressing the tip further into your skin, she drags the knife down towards the top of your breasts.

“Don’t-” you blurt out, but it’s too late.

Her knife pops the button holding your shirt together, and you sigh. “This was a very expensive shirt, Natasha.”

“Oh,” she says, her eyebrows threaded in false sympathy. She pops another button. “Oops, my hand slipped.”

The tip of the knife drags over your stomach as she continues to pop the rest of your buttons, her hands quick as she pushes the fabric to the side to reveal your torso.

“This is a nice bra,” she says, her pupils dilating. Natasha looks back up at you, leaning in until her lips are close to yours. You can feel her breath against your skin, and you breathe in her cinnamon scent eagerly. “Not very practical, though.’

“I wore it just for you, детка.”

“Cute,” Natasha says, before smirking and digging her blade under the front of the bra and cutting it cleanly. “Tell me your name and I’ll leave your pants in one piece.”

“Who says I want to keep them on?” You smile widely at her.

“Smartass,” Natasha retorts, dragging her knife deeper over your skin.

You flinch, letting out a soft breath as she leaves shallow cuts over your chest. You can feel your underwear dampening, and your hips move slightly.

Natasha catches the movement, her other hand moving to your upper thigh and caressing you there. Her touch is warm and confident, and you breathe in deeply as you attempt to regain your composure.

“Just tell me your first name, then I’ll give you what you want,” Natasha emphasizes her words by sliding her hand further up your thigh. Her thumb rests dangerously close to your aching core, and you bite your lip.

“Why, so you know what to scream in bed?”

Smirking, Natasha places the tip of her knife over your nipple, digging in slightly as you wince. “You can either comply and feel good, or you can be a brat and scream for me while I cut your nipple off.”

Her voice is hard, and you instantly know that she’s not joking around. Ah, what’s the harm in just telling her your first name, right?

“It’s Y/N,” you gasp out, breathing a sigh of relief when she drags the knife away from your nipple.

“Very good,” she murmurs, holding the knife against your neck.

You freeze, feeling her other hand cup your overheated core. Holy fuck does it feel good. A soft moan escapes your traitorous lips, and you abandon all dignity as you grind your hips into Natasha’s hand.

“Does that feel good? Do you want more?” Natasha’s lips are on your ear again, and you nod quickly, your mind racing. “Tell me your last name and I’ll give you my fingers.”

You laugh, throwing her off guard. The knife at your throat digs in slightly, and you let the laugh die as you tilt your head to look at her. “I’ll never tell you my last name, that’s a promise.”

Your smile is wide, your eyes slightly crazed as you continue to grind against her hand. “But,” you say, catching her attention. “I’ll tell you the location of my home base if you can make me cum.”

Natasha mulls it over, watching your desperation grow. “Fine,” she says after a few moments, “But if you refuse to answer then this will only get worse for you.”

Nodding at her, you watch as she slips her hand inside your pants. Her fingers expertly find your clit, circling it as you moan lewdly before thrusting deeply into your wet, aching pussy.

It doesn’t take long for you to cum. The combined sensation of her fingers curling deep inside you while her knife solidly digs into your throat is enough to send you tumbling over the edge into a powerful orgasm.

You cum around her fingers, clenching down tightly on them while you shake and shudder. Natasha watches you through it all, her eyes dark and needy as she watches you come undone.

Eventually, she pulls her fingers from you. Bringing them to her mouth, she sucks your cum and arousal off of them, closing her eyes briefly and groaning at the taste.

Smiling, you lean back slightly in satisfaction as you watch. You had to admit, she was talented with her fingers. Natasha removes the knife from your throat, only a faint stinging sensation lingering from where she’d pressed the blade against you.

“Good, now it’s your turn to answer-” she cuts herself off, tilting her head as she listens to something in her earpiece.

You watch her expression harden, her eyes glancing over to you while her fingers tighten around the handle of her knife. She barks out a quick confirmation of her position, before following it with a quick ‘Yes, Sir.’

Natasha’s eyes lock on yours, and she leans down with her knife pointed directly at your heart. “I have to go deal with something, if I find out that you were involved with this in any way, you’re in for a world of pain. Got it?”

If you could raise your hands, you would. Instead, you settle back as much as you can, raising an eyebrow at her. “I’ll be here when you return, don’t worry.”

Narrowing her eyes at your words, Natasha licks the blood off of the tip of her knife while you watch with your mouth open. She smirks, then turns on her heel and walks quickly towards the door she’d entered. She glances back at you one last time before exiting, her eyes dark and hard.

You give her a two-fingered wave, chuckling at the resounding slam of the door. Waiting a few moments, you tap your foot as you count to 30. Once you’re sure she’s gone, no doubt dealing with the distraction you’d instructed your team to create, you slip a paper clip from your sleeve and quickly unlock your restraints.

Standing, you stretch for a moment before casually walking towards the window. You can hear a helicopter overhead, a rope dangling in front of the window. Unlatching the window, you wrap your torn shirt around you as tight as you can, tying the front so you aren’t completely exposed.

Honestly, as hot as the action was, you couldn’t help but be slightly annoyed at the inconvenience. What was your team doing to think about you once they saw you with cuts all over your chest and a smile on your face?

You move to climb out the window, one leg swinging over the sill as you grab the rope with your hands when the door clangs open.

Looking back you make eye contact with Natasha as she stands frozen for a moment, knife in hand. She shouts something, but you’re already being pulled from the window by the rope, a laugh escaping your lips as you watch her run towards you.

By the time Natasha reaches the window, you’re 50 feet in the air, being pulled up towards the helicopter as it speeds away. You blow her a kiss, a wide smile on your face as you watch her stab her knife into the window sill. It was always so thrilling, this game of cat-and-mouse.

Maybe next time she’d finally capture you successfully.

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