AN: 🩵💗💛 - imagine loki's looks are like 'the dark world' era!! eeeeeek i loved writing this so so much!! enjoy!!
“I still don’t understand how you convinced Odin to release you.” You called over your shoulder. “Your attack on Earth was but a month ago.”
“I assume my mother had something to do with it. Odin himself seemed rather set on allowing me to rot.”
“I’m sure he loves you…” You muttered under your breath so his ravens would not catch you. “In his own demented way.”
Loki laughed, really laughed for the first time since his return. “He has allowed me to be released under the condition that I could not leave the castle grounds.”
“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the woods around you. “And just what would you call this?”
“The Royal Wood, which is an extension of the grounds,” Loki smirked. “I would never break my vow to my father.”
You scoffed, your hands resting on your hips. “Do not lie to me, Loki Odinson. If you recall, we have a vow of our own.”
“How could I forget?” You were children when you made him swear to never trick you. He had held strong, for the most part. “You are possibly the only person I would never lie to. Well…” He leaned against a tree, leaning his head back to take in the summer sun. “You and my mother.”
“If you say so.” You hated when he did this, when he made you feel special. It was horrible, the worst trick of all, mainly because he had no idea what he was doing to you. “I have to bring your mother these ingredients.”
“Allow me to accompany you.”
Your cheeks felt hot, and you shook your head, flustered yet again by his chivalrous behavior. “That’s not necessary.”
“I insist.” He took the basket out of your arms, beckoning you to follow after him. “My mother would have my head if she saw a lady carrying such a load, let alone her favorite lady.”
“Loki.” You scolded, reaching out to take the basket back. “I am not a lady.”
“This again.” He sighed. “You are quite stubborn.”
“You’re one to talk.” You laughed, cowering under the judgmental looks of the nobility you passed.
“Must you deny me this one kind act?”
“It is not proper-”
“You must be the only servant who complains when someone helps you.”
“I take pride in my work, Loki.”
“An admirable quality.” The guards in front of his mother’s suite bowed their heads, opening the doors. “Still, you are stubborn.”
“Loki-” You scowled, curtsying before the queen. “Your Majesty, the ingredients you requested.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Frigga was the very picture of elegance. Not only was she elegant, but she was also kind to everyone regardless of rank. You had no issue carrying out trivial tasks for the queen, because the queen never treated you as lesser than; she treated you as she would treat her own sons. “Did you have any trouble?”
“Not at all, my lady.”
“Mother.” Loki approached the golden-haired woman, kissing her cheek. “Tell your lady she must not bow when she greets you.”
“Loki!” You gasped, turning to Frigga like you had been the one to say it. “My lady, I would never-”
“Must you tease the girl so?” Frigga chastised her son.
“I am so sorry, my lady.”
“Do not apologize, my son is a prankster, as we all know.” She smiled warmly, tucking a strand of hair behind Loki’s ear. “Among many other admirable qualities.”
Loki grew shy under his mother’s affection, brushing off her compliments. “We must be going.”
“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow.
“You wished to visit the library, yes?”
“I never-” You tilted your head. “Have you developed mind-reading powers as well?”
He shrugged, kissing his mother’s cheek once more before extending his hand. “Shall we?”
You smacked his hand away, walking out of the queen’s room with Loki trailing behind you. “If you can read minds now, please refrain from reading mine.” He laughed, and you smacked his arm. “I mean it, Loki.”
“I cannot read minds. Remember that we have been friends for quite some time now. I know you perhaps better than I know myself.”
“Well, no wonder. You are such a mystery.” You teased. “The rakish, brooding prince. I am surprised some lady has not taken you into her clutches.”
“You think me rakish?” He raised an eyebrow, holding the library door open.
“One observes things.” You shrugged, gliding over to the fiction section, grabbing the first book that caught your eye. “It is not a bad trait, I assure you.”
“If you say so.” He looked rather disappointed, plopping into his favorite leather chair.
“You are also kind, considerate, even. Loyal to a fault.” Your hand found his, squeezing it. “You are many things, but most of all, you are a wonderful friend.”
“Friend.” He huffed, face scrunched like the word left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Are we not friends?” You sat back, hand pulling away from his. Oh, how you wished you could stay like that forever, his forever-cold hand intertwined with yours.
“Yes, we are.” He almost sounded disappointed. You decided not to dwell on it, immersing yourself in the novel. Loki simply stared, admiring your beauty, the way your eyes scanned the page, the way you smiled to yourself, the way your eyebrows furrowed.
“You wear your heart on your sleeve.” He murmured.
Your eyes did not leave the page. “Oh?”
“It is quite-” He stopped himself. “It is quite humorous.”
“If it is so amusing, then by all means, keep staring.” You teased. You were used to this, the staring, the intense gaze Loki held. He loved to watch people, to observe those around him. At first, you had found it quite overwhelming, especially when you looked up to find him already staring at you. His eyes were beautiful, dangerous as they pulled you in. You shook your head, fighting against your imagination.
“My prince.” You looked up, fighting the urge to groan as the nuisance that was the Lady Ness approached. “I thought I would find you here.”
Loki looked entirely unenthused, but still entertained the woman. “Hello, my lady.”
The Lady Ness was the eldest daughter of one of Odin’s closest advisors. She was what Asgardians considered to be the perfect beauty, with blonde hair bordering on white, and beautiful pale blue eyes. She was tall, the very picture of royalty.
Which is what she desperately wanted to be. She had followed the two princes around since you were children, treating them as if they were idols, gods even.
They were, but still. It became tiresome.
She had her sights set on Thor for eons, but after she learned of his undying love for the Lady Jane, she gave up, switching her sights to Loki.
There was nothing the younger prince hated more than being the second choice.
There was nothing you hated more than the Lady Ness suddenly finding interest in a man you’d loved since age five. You did not attempt to acknowledge the woman, simply looking back down at your book. It was hard to focus, though, with her constant chattering.
“Will I see you at the Summer Solstice Ball, my prince?”
Loki’s gaze fell back to you before responding. “You will indeed.”
“How wonderful. I do love dancing.” You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Do you enjoy dancing, my prince?”
“With the right lady.” He nodded. “I do.”
“Shall I reserve a place for you on my card?” Your hold on the book tightened. “It would be an immense honor.” A scoff fell from your lips, and your eyes widened. You had meant for that to be in your head.
Loki smiled. “I’m afraid I-”
“Is something the matter?” The Lady Ness interrupted, staring at you. “Have I done something to amuse you?”
You looked up, shaking your head. “No, my lady.”
“Now you remember your manners.” The Lady Ness raised an eyebrow. You simply stared back, your face blank. “When I entered the room, you did not curtsy. Are you manners selective?”
You shut your book, standing up. “You seem rather concerned with my manners. How observant you must be.” The lady proudly nodded. “Allow me to explain, I bow to royalty.” You gestured to Loki before gesturing to her. “Not some common lady with an aptitude for mistreating servants.”
“Why I-” She gasped, stumbling over her words. You made a point to be over the top in your curtsy to the prince, before promptly walking out of the room.
You angrily picked bunches of moss from the forest floor, ripping it from the ground as if it had wronged you.
The Lady Ness annoyed you to no end, with her flirting and her flowy gowns and her touching Loki's arm. It was as if she did it on purpose, as if she amplified her flirting when you were there, like she was trying to tell you he was hers, that you could never have him.
You already knew that, no thanks to her. It was something that kept you up into the late hours of the night, the ‘what-ifs’ haunting you even in sleep.
If you were of some higher standing, you would have smacked her long ago. Unfortunately, you could only verbally attack her.
“Are you quite well?” Loki’s voice broke you from your thoughts. “You did not stop when I called after you yesterday.”
“I cannot stand her.” You complained. “She-she is without a doubt-”
He looked rather amused at your ranting, hands clasped behind his back, his ever-familiar smirk gracing his lips. “I am sorry.”
“Why should you be sorry?” You laughed bitterly. “I’m sure she will mellow with age.”
“Mellow with age?” He raised an eyebrow.
You nodded, going back to your gathering. “Odin must be rather pleased with this match.”
“Match?” It seemed as if Loki was stuck on repeat, parroting you with confusion etched in his tone.
“Between you and Lady Ness.” You grumbled, brushing the dirt off your skirt as you stood. “I’m certain he has arranged for her to be your lady wife.”
“I’m sorry?”
You walked further into the wood, Loki following after you. “She will be a great wife, I’m sure. She seems intelligent enough and could bring you company. Your children-” Your voice broke, and you felt your cheeks grow hot. “They will be menaces, but what child isn’t? I’m sure they will grow out of it, as she will grow out of her rather annoying attributes.” You pulled out your knife, cutting off a section of tree bark, your mind clouded with rage. “She will bring you happiness. I’m excited for you, truly-” You hissed, the knife falling out of your hand as you stared at the stream of blood that ran down your palm. “Ow.”
Loki raced over, taking your hand in his as he observed the wound. “You were being careless.”
“I was not.” Your eyes welled, the pain finally taking hold. “It is just a cut.”
“You are practically crying.” He frowned. “You must be careful.”
“I-” He waved his hand over your injury, the pain subsiding, the cut healing itself. You watched in fascination, the wound glowing green for a mere moment before dissapearing entirely. “How did you-”
“Growing up with Thor meant I had to be prepared for anything.” He smiled, his fingers gently tracing over the once bloody finger. “Does it hurt?”
You shook your head, voice quiet. “It’s like it never even existed.”
“Good.” He looked up, his breath shaky when he met your gaze. “You frightened me.”
“You worry too much.” You hadn’t meant to, truly, but your eyes fell to his lips, heart racing. “I’m sorry.”
His hand found its way to your waist, pulling you close. You gasped, glaring as a smirk grew on the prince’s lips. “Whatever for, my lady?”
“I didn’t mean to-” You swallowed. “I did not mean to insult the Lady-”
“Please, do not speak her name any longer.” He groaned. “She is as tiresome as she is wealthy.”
“She is to be your lady wife, is she not?” You murmured, his hand that had once cradled your injured hand now holding your cheek. “She is quite the match.”
He laughed. “I’m sure she will make some unlucky man rather miserable.”
“Loki-”
“If I have any say-” He whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips momentarily. “I will marry for love, not because my father made some strategic alliance. She is not for me, I assure you.”
“You-” Loki now had your back against the tree, practically pinning you in position. His forehead lay against yours, your breath entwined with his. “You have some other lucky lady in mind?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Oh?” The reality of the situation hit you like Mjolnir hit its enemies. Hard and true, you accepted that you might just kiss the man you’d loved since before you could remember. “Do I know her?”
He nodded once more, his lips so close they brushed against yours as he spoke. “I believe so-”
“Brother!” Your eyes widened, and you pushed Loki away, cheeks hot as you forced yourself to look as inconspicuous as possible. Thor’s voice rang through the wood. “Brother, where are you?”
“I-” Loki stuttered, hand reaching out to hold you once more. “Just wait one moment-”
“Ah!” Thor’s golden hair came into view, the god haphazardly destroying the forest floor. “My lady, it is wonderful to see you!”
You curtsied, your heart and mind still racing from the moment before. “My prince. I was just leaving.” You couldn’t meet Loki’s eyes, simply nodding. “Loki.”
You raced toward the castle, forgetting your basket full of ingredients.
Loki would bring them to his mother later.
“Have I interrupted something?” Thor’s voice held a certain sort of mischeif that made Loki feel uneasy. “It seems as if I caught the pair of you in a rather intimate moment.”
“I-” Loki could not find the words, something that pleased Thor greatly.
“The great trickster is speechless?” He grinned, patting his little brother on the back. “Oh, Loki, why did you not say something?”
“Like you said. You interrupted.” He was practically glowering, glaring at his brother like it was his life’s purpose. “I-I had almost-”
“Do you want my advice, brother?” Loki continued to glare at him, fighting the urge to stab the golden-haired imbecile in the gut. “You must do something. Be brave, show her you care.”
“I was doing that!” Loki yelled. “You have the worst timing in the world-”
“Calm down, brother.” Thor laughed. “When I first met the Lady Jane-” Oh gods, Loki thought as he rolled his eyes. Once Thor began to talk about Jane, he tended to never stop. “She was rather intimidating, smart, and beautiful. But after I showed her my interest, my-”
Loki walked away, fists clenched tightly as Thor continued, following after him.
You hadn’t seen Loki in days.
You had gone to Frigga’s chambers after the incident, to apologize for leaving the ingredients behind, when you saw Loki just outside her door, the basket in hand.
After that, you’d gone out of your way to avoid him.
It was childish, you knew that, but you couldn’t look at him without transforming into a blabbering mess. You purposely did your chores outside of the castle grounds so he could not follow you or surprise you.
Your room was deep in the ground, chilly from its lack of sunlight and candles. You hadn’t minded before, but now that you were in your self-prescribed isolation, you couldn’t help but wish you had a prettier view.
Just when you thought you’d forgotten, that you’d gotten over your momentary lapse in judgment, it all came rushing back. His hand cradling your cheeks, his lips brushing against yours, his fingertips digging into your hip. A chill ran down your spine, and you shook your head as if that would rid you of the scandalous thoughts.
He was simply being kind, caring for you as you had cared for him.
A handmaiden walked into your room unannounced, gently placing a large box on your simple vanity. You jumped when you saw her. “I did not see you.”
The handmaiden, one of Frigga’s, no doubt, smiled kindly. “I gathered. I was tasked with ensuring you received this package, and was told you must wear it to the Summer Solstice Ball.”
“Wear it?” You tilted your head, rising from your bed to inspect the gift. “Is it a gown?”
“It is indeed, my lady.”
So this had been Loki’s doing.
“You must not call me that.” You smiled. “I am no lady.”
The handmaiden shrugged, glancing over your shoulder curiously as you pulled apart the forest green ribbon that held together the wrappings. “It seems to me that you shall be soon.”
“What-” You choked, shaking your head vehemently. “I- that is-”
“I will take my leave.” She bowed quickly, shutting the door behind her. You cursed the god of Mischief, vowing that when you were done ignoring him, you would scold him for his antics. The wrappings fell away, your eyes welling as you stared at the gown.
After all these years, all this time, he never forgot a single thing you told him, and this gown was proof. It was exactly what you’d described to him two thousand years ago.
You’d been young then, much more naive than now. You and Loki were lounging in the gardens, watching the nobility walk by in their dreamy attire. You sighed, staring down at your robes in embarrassment. “Could you conjure me something?”
“I can try.” Loki nodded, placing his book down beside him. “What is it you wish for?”
“A nicer dress.” You were jealous of their beauty, your simple frock nothing compared to their silky pastel gowns.
“I-” He frowned. “I am sorry. My powers are not-”
You shook your head. “Forget I said anything.”
He nodded, watching you with interest. “What would it look like, your dream gown?”
It would look like this. The gown that he’d sent you, which now hung delicately in your closet, two thousand years later.
You could hear the roar of the partygoers from the end of the hall, your nerves growing more and more the closer you got. You thanked the gods that this was not the kind of ball where attendees were announced, as you would surely faint from the judgmental eyes that fell on you.
The ballroom glowed bright golden, the light the candles provided reflecting off the pure gold walls. Your jaw hung loose, taking in the decorations, the people, the fashion. Your eyes fell to the bottom of the stairs, cheeks growing hot when you met Loki’s gaze.
He was standing by the Lady Ness, who looked livid that you had torn his attention from her.
You couldn’t find it in you to care, not when he was looking at you like that. His smile was bright, and he looked devilishly handsome in his forest green attire, walking up the steps.
You took a deep breath, meeting him in the middle. “My prince.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He spoke plainly, as if it were fact. Technically, it was.
“I-”
“Do not try and deny it.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
You gladly complied with his request, cheeks growing hot, from the attention or Loki’s gaze, you couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both. “You remembered.” You looked over, finding satisfaction in the way your words had caused Loki to turn red. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
He shrugged like what he’d done wasn’t the most romantic thing you’d ever experienced. “Only the best for-”
“My prince.” You clenched your fist when Lady Ness’s grating voice met your ears, turning toward the enemy. “I lost you for a moment.”
Loki laughed. “Yes, you did.” His hand tightened, pulling you closer to his side as if to signal he was occupied. You had felt it was rather obvious, but Lady Ness had a history of feigning ignorance to blatantly obvious rejections.
“Shall we dance?” Lady Ness’s steely blue eyes darted toward you, as if she were trying to scare you off. You were not deterred by her weak attempt at intimidation, your hand still comfortably held in Loki’s. “You did promise me.”
He tilted his head. “Did I?”
You laughed, your hand falling to your side. “It is but one dance.” The Lady Ness let out a gasp that neither of you acknowledged. “I’m quite parched anyhow.”
He nodded. “As you wish.”
The Lady Ness looked entirely displeased at his actions, especially over the phrase ‘as you wish,’ which had been directed toward you, and not her request. You made your way to the drinks, taking a flute of champagne as you found your place in the corner of the room. Leaning against the column, you glared as Lady Ness cackled, downing the flute in one go.
Loki had not planned for this to happen.
He had planned for you to receive the dress, to escort you down the steps. He had also planned to confess his undying love for you, but Lady Ness once again interrupted.
She had the most inconvenient timing.
He led her to the middle of the dance floor, putting as much distance as possible. The Lady Ness kept laughing, which he found odd, as he had not said a single thing since the dance had begun. He kept looking around the edge of the room, searching for your familiar frame.
Ah.
You looked radiant. Positively glowing. He’d always loved you in that color. If he was being honest with himself, he loved you in every color. He frowned, watching as you chewed your nails, something you had the habit of doing when you were anxious.
“My prince?” The Lady Ness called out as he walked away from her in the middle of the dance floor, stalking toward you, the crowd parting as he walked.
“Dance with me.”
You jumped, clutching your heart. “Gods, Loki, you scared me.” You guiltily looked at your fingers before meeting his gaze. “I-”
He waved his hand, all the rips you’d made in your delicate skin gone in an instant. “Dance with me.”
“Loki.” You looked over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sobbing lady he’d left in the middle of the floor. “Have you gone mad?”
“Possibly.”
“You cannot just leave her in the middle of the floor.” You leaned closer, whispering so the many eavesdropping ears around you could not hear. “Even if she is quite annoying.”
“I am the prince. I can do as I wish.”
You rolled your eyes at his comment. “You-” It seemed he took your lack of rejection as a yes, holding your hand firmly in his as he pulled you to the middle of the dance floor, the light waltz playing in the background. “You are the most indignant, prideful, scheming man I have ever known.”
He smiled, a squeak leaving your lips when he pulled you much closer than a waltz called for. “Tell me what else I am.”
“You-” You gulped, growing nervous under his ever attentive eye. “You are-”
“It seems you are at a loss for words.” He whispered in your ear, a chill running down your spine from the proximity of it all. “Is that a recent development, my lady?”
“You are arrogant.” You hissed.
He grinned. “I am.”
“You are marvelous.”
“I am.” His reaction was delayed, caught off guard by your sudden compliment.
“It seems you are at a loss for words.” You parroted his words from just a moment ago. “Is that a recent development, my prince?”
“You are a wonder.” He held your gaze so beautifully that any innocent bystander would assume you were both deeply in love. “You look divine, a goddess in your own right.”
“Loki.” You felt as if you could melt, the music slowing to a stop before you could respond. The crowd around you clapped wildly, obviously invested in the show you two had put on.
Loki bowed, his brother catching his gaze. Thor was practically jumping, mouthing the words he had said days before.
Be brave.
It was so unfortunate when his brother was right. You stood upright, following Loki’s gaze to see Thor grinning like a buffoon. “What is he-”
Loki’s hands grabbed your face, pulling your lips to his. Your eyes widened at the action, weak from his touch. Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer. He grinned, a hand falling to your hips, squeezing.
You gasped, your knees weakening. “Loki-”
“Is all that you can say my name?” He whispered, his forehead once again lying against yours.
“You are a-” He leaned down, kissing your lips once more.
“I love you…” His breath was heavy, pupils blown as he stared at you. “Most ardently.”
A tear fell down your cheek, and you grinned. “Most ardently?”
He nodded, voice wavering. “I assume you love me as well?”
“I do.” You kissed the corner of his mouth softly, so softly he had barely felt it. “With my whole being."
Summary: It’s Loki’s first time looking after your daughter alone.
Rating: All ages/SFW
A/N: A rare fem-specific reader from me. Pure fluff.
LOKI MASTERLIST
“Are you sure you can handle this?”
“Am I sure?”
“Yeah-“
“Am I sure I can handle watching our child for a few hours?”
Loki raised a brow, blinking at you as you sighed, putting a hand on your hip, holding his gaze.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” You said lowly, lips quirking faintly upwards. Loki rolled his eyes slightly, casually moving to lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding his arms over his chest.
“Darling, please, I am a God.” He smirked, that smug one he does when he allows some of his arrogance to surface. “I am very much capable of looking after our daughter whilst you go and ‘let your hair down’.” He paused, his ocean eyes flickering over your features. “Natasha is correct, you deserve to unwind a little.” He told you sincerely, knowing how hectic everything had been since the arrival of your daughter over six months ago.
“But what if something happens and I’m not here-“ You tried, brows furrowing in worry.
“I’m a God, remember?” Loki cut you off, raising a brow, shrugging. “Besides, what could possibly go wrong?”
Famous last words it seemed.
Freya had been crying for the last twenty minutes. Nothing seemed to be working. Not even a touch of illusionary magic was doing the trick. It seemed to work for the tiniest of moments, Loki letting out a breath of relief, before suddenly the wailing continued as if she was now offended by his attempt to quell her upset.
Yes, this was the first time Loki had been left alone with Freya - if you couldn’t already tell.
Children of his own was never something Loki had ever considered, but when you came along and time went on… Well, having a child seemed less like a nuisance and more like an adventure. Being on Midgard for the last five years had changed Loki. Sure, he was still very much the God of Mischief, but now, he had an air of maturity about him. Being apart of the Avengers, having somewhere he belonged… Friends… You… Of course, if you had told him this would be his situation years ago, he would’ve laughed and called you ‘absurd’. Yet, here he was.
The God of Mischief… Defeated by a baby.
“Can we not discuss this like adults?” Loki asked rhetorically, a sardonic wry edge to his voice as he bounced Freya gently in his arms, one of his large hands supporting her back. His brows were furrowed, lips parted slightly as he looked at his daughter who was insisting on wailing still. “I mean, really, I think you’re making some… excellent points-“
Another wail.
“Yes, I agree.” His hand at her back patted her lightly as he let out a deep sigh. Freya’s tiny hand found its way to his curls tucked behind his ear as she grasped it, pulling in her little rage. “Ow! No- No, we do not- There is no need for violence.” He moved towards the couch, feeling a headache begin to form. He began to feel slightly self-conscious, worried he was doing something wrong.
He’d read all the baby books possible before she was born, but it seemed even they didn’t have an answer for everything. He’d tried feeding her, rocking her, putting her down for a nap, illusions, change of nappy— Everything that could’ve been the issue. He sat on the couch, shifting Freya so she could sit on his lap, his hands still supporting her, one staying at her back whilst the other held under her small arm. He looked down at his daughter, seeing her blue eyes all glassy, cheeks red and puffy from crying. It was a sight he would’ve once found extremely… well, snotty. But with Freya, his flesh and blood, it only unsettled him, tugged at his heart.
“You certainly are your father’s daughter.” Loki mumbled to himself. “Throwing a fit of rage for reasons no one else seems to understand.” He tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps someone misses their mother, hm?” At that, Freya went silent for a moment, as if she understood. Loki raised a brow, holding his daughter’s gaze. “Oh… Is that it?” He slowly began to realise that he was likely correct. It was the first time she had been without you since she was born, and whilst people underestimated babies capabilities to understand their surroundings, he knew better.
“Well, I’m here.” Loki said lightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “And I may even be considered more fun than mum.”
Another wail.
Loki winced at the sound, his smile dropping from his face. She didn’t like that notion it seemed. He glanced at the clock, it had only been an hour since you’d left - although it felt like several.
“Right.” Loki muttered under his breath, before getting up from the couch, once again holding Freya to his chest. “Let’s try something different, shall we?” His hand shifted to cradle the back of her head gently, once more bouncing her softly in a soothing motion. Clearing his throat quietly, he let out a breath before opening his mouth as a low, comforting melody fell from his lips.
“I stormsvarte fjell, jeg vandrer alene,
Over isbreen tar jeg meg frem,
I eplehagen står møyen den vene,
Og synger: “når kommer du hjem?”
The last note rang out softly as Freya’s cries had ebbed, giving way to a few sniffles. Loki held his breath, waiting to see if the old song had managed to quell his daughter’s cries fully. After a few seconds of no wailing, he let out a relieved breath, feeling a warmth in his chest at the fact he had managed to comfort his daughter. After a few tries, but still. That was being a parent.
“So, it seems someone prefers my singing to my show of powers.” He mused playfully, keeping his tone soft and quiet, scared if he spoke too loud he would send Freya into another episode of tears. “You take after your mother on that one.” He smiled slightly, tilting his head to meet his daughter’s eyes. “Although, sometimes I think she prefers it when I’m completely silent.” His smile widened, seeing how Freya was now giving him her full attention. “Can’t say I blame her.” He whispered teasingly, moving to grab a nearby cloth to wipe away the remnants of tears - and snot - from Freya’s adorable little face. “There. Much better. Can’t have my princess looking like her uncle now, can we? All snotty and bubbling.” He smirked, placing the dirty cloth aside as he began to move back towards the couch. “Not very becoming of her highness.”
Freya made a soft gurgle, making Loki laugh quietly, sitting back against the couch as he kept Freya in his arms, resting against his chest so he could look at her. She was the perfect blend of both of you. His eyes, with raven tuffs of hair, your nose and mouth… She truly was a marvel. “Why don’t I tell you about the time I turned your uncle into a frog?”
—
Letting out a breath, you entered the home you shared with Loki, kicking off your shoes as you paused, listening for any sounds. Silence. Your brows furrowed, glancing at the clock on the wall in the hallway. It was around the time Freya would wake in the night and decide it was time for everyone to be awake with her… Yet, no noise. Creeping down the hall, you approached the doorway of the lounge, peering inside. There you saw it. A sight that melted your heart. Loki had his eyes closed, Freya sleeping on his chest, his hand supporting her head whilst the other held her back. The house hadn’t burnt down, there was no mess, no illusions of frogs or god knows what running about the place… Just… peace.
You felt tears well in your eyes as you leaned against the doorframe, heart feeling like it could burst out your chest. After a few seconds, Loki slowly opened an eye, instantly finding you. His brows furrowed faintly, the glow of the lamp reflected in your glassy gaze as he opened his other eye. It took a moment, but then he recognised that look.
“You had a few glasses of wine, didn’t you?” He asked playfully, voice barely above a whisper. You sniffled, straightening.
“No…” You mumbled, tone completely giving you away.
“Hm.” Loki smirked, before carefully lifting his hand from Freya’s head to not disturb her, reaching out towards you. You immediately headed towards him, taking his offered hand as his slender fingers grasped yours. “Your teary eyes tell me otherwise.” He teased softly. “You get emotional every time you have a glass or two.”
“How can I not-“ You drawled quietly, lips pouting faintly. “-when I come back to this?” You gestured loosely towards Freya, referring to the sight that was before you of the two people you loved most in the universe. “And nothing is on fire.” Loki had to hold back a chuckle at that, his lips quirking upwards.
“See? I told you I could handle it.” Loki mused, a hint of his typical smugness entering his voice as he gazed up at you. Besides, you didn’t need to know about the first hour… In the end, it all worked out perfectly and he felt a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment because of it. “Although, she is most definitely my daughter.” He added in a wry murmur, glancing back down at the bundle of sleeping joy on his chest. Your eyes followed his, your features softening even further - if that was possible. After a moment of silence, you spoke again.
“She wailed a lot didn’t she?”
“How did you-“
“Because you also wail a lot-“
“I beg your pardon? I do not ‘wail’, I… express my frustration eloquently like an adult.”
A little heart-to-heart after you get injured on a mission and are stuck in medbay for a couple of hours.
Warnings: Talks of stabbing, think that's about it!
Word count: 2.3k
A/n: Still working on those Tommy Miller, Joel Miller and Bucky fics - It's just taking a lot longer to figure out how I want them to go, but either the Bucky or Joel one will be posted on Thursday! Here's a Loki drabble to tide you over until then!
Loki knew fear, after all, he was exceptional at extracting it from others with nothing but thinly-veiled threats and his favourite dagger. But he’d never known fear so intimately until it came wrapped up in the body of a mortal with big eyes and an even bigger heart. It had to be the size of all the realms combined to be able to fall in love with someone like him.
Even so, you were as formidable as the famed warriors he’d had the displeasure of being forced around in Asgard, you were as vicious as he was, and had also shown to be as blood-thirsty as those vampires in that movie saga you showed him. Twilight, it had been called. The very memory of Edward Cullen and the dog without a shirt was enough to send him packing to Valhalla for reprieve.
But you were a mortal, only made more unfortunate given his God status. Mortals bled easily. Mortals broke, no matter how formidable or viscous they were. And now his affections affixed themselves firmly, irrevocably even, onto you… well, apparently that was enough to scare the shit out of him.
Permanence was not in your cards no matter how long you spent together.
It was especially obvious to him now, as you’re currently tucked into one of the medbay cots with three hours of supervision ordered by Helen Cho herself after you continued to bleed through the stitches they made. Even the poor nurse on hand looked stressed out of their mind, when they had to pause to apply pressure… again.
The mission had been an easy one, so easy that Fury only gave you a handful of Level 3 agents to complete it as part of your role as supervisor. Unfortunately, babysitting them turned out to be more dangerous than if you just went alone. At least that’s how you ended up getting stabbed under your ribs, because one of them wasn’t thorough enough in clearing the hallway.
Oh, what’s that? A very much NOT knocked out HYDRA agent on the floor? Oh, and what’s that in his hand? A big knife? Oh look there’s one coming down the hallway too.
Blessedly, the medbay was at least empty, none of your assigned team getting injured enough to join you. Although the incessant beeping coming from the monitor next to your bed was starting to grate on your nerves, even more irritating than the sulking God slouched in the chair at your bedside.
Loki looks exhausted, the kind he would never admit to. His usually meticulous appearance is rumpled and dishevelled, shirt creased from sitting with you for an hour already, curls messy from his restless hands. His face was carefully schooled into his easy neutrality, but the hard set of his shoulders and clenched jaw gave him away.
He’d been there when you were brought in from the landing bay, F.R.I.D.A.Y. likely alerting him of your injured status once the Quinjet touched down and Helen’s interns got a hold of you. The A.I. often did that for the Avengers, and you’d be surprised to learn that it was Tony who programmed that into her system.
You’re the one to finally break the silence. “I’m okay,” you say, your voice soft enough to tug his gaze back to you.
Blue eyes meet yours, relief flickering with something harsher. Annoyance, maybe? You probably pulled him from one of his books. He leans forward, folding his arms across his chest as he studies you closely. “You’re an idiot,” he scoffs. “How does one just not notice a man with a knife?”
“I was distracted by the other guy with a knife,” you shoot back, attempting to cross your arms in mirror to him. The attempt ends abruptly when your fist collides with your bandaged ribs. A hiss escapes before you can bite it down, and you admit defeat by keeping your arms at your sides.
Loki lurches forward, chair screeching against the vinyl floor, as if he might be able to do something to stop the pain. Your glare stops him just as effectively, and he sinks back down, muttering something sharp under his breath. The corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk as he jests: “Yes, yes, you were busy getting cornered and nearly gutted. Very heroic."
You roll your eyes, if only to stop yourself from throttling the man you have the misfortune of loving. “Big words coming from the one who got taken off the rota for pranking Fury.”
That earns you the full Loki-smirk, sharp and amused, his eyes narrowing in challenge. The bickering was familiar. And hell of a lot more comfortable than admitting you’re hurt and want comfort. The two of you have always found refuge in petty jabs and snarky comments, in fact, your relationship was practically built on it. A foundation built on insults and bickering was something that no one else quite understood, not even the other Avengers who were still convinced that you and Loki were only pranking them about being together. Then they’d find you pressed up against the wall, Loki biting at your neck and suddenly the joke wasn’t so funny. But it made sense to you though, in fact, it made more sense than any other relationship you’ve been in, the sarcasm being met by your equal and shielding feelings that were too big to handle out loud.
He stretches back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of arrogant regal composure. "You say ‘pranking.’ I say ‘strategic disruption of command structure.’ It's all about perspective, my darling."
Though as the words left his mouth you didn’t feel the usual deflection. It was there, sure, it often was, but this felt so much more… brittle. Forced. Like it was moments away from shattering, judging by the way his mask was beginning to crack. It probably reflected yours too.
For you, it was your pride that you were trying to rescue, the hit of being taken down too easily looming over you. For him, it was the terrifying reality of losing you, and should he give that fear enough power it may very well consume him.
He clears his throat, eyes flicking away from you to settle on the steady green line of your heartbeat on the monitor. Up and down. Up and down. Not straight across. It was the only reassurance that was cutting through the worry.
Your own walls crumble first, as they usually do when paired against the stubborn God. “Hey,” you say softly, reaching across the bed to grasp the hand closest to you. It’s larger where yours is smaller, calloused where yours is softer. Cold where yours is warm. Frost giant. An identity you’re still learning to reconcile with. Not out of shame, nor disgust. But newness. A side of himself he’s only just shown you. “I’m okay. Promise.”
His gaze searches yours, looking for consolation that this hit wasn’t as drastic to a mortal as he thinks it is. His fingers reflexively curl around yours, the concern he’s trying to conceal is as plain as day on his face. “You better be. I’m not losing you.” His voice is quieter now, all sarcasm vanished. It’s almost jarring to see the God of Mischief try to process his own feelings so outwardly. This was the same being who could turn a lie into a weapon, who thrived on trickery and half-truths–often when he knows you won’t like what he has to say. Yet here he is, laying down the foundations of honesty.
He squeezes your hand again, the sight of your entwined hands grounding him and reminding him that you were still here. That his fears lie only in the worst-case scenarios that he had been playing around with in his head and not founded in reality. His thumb traces circles as he attempts to sound more blasé this time. The tremor in his voice gives him away instantly. "It would be terribly inconvenient to have to find another lover. I waited centuries for you. Imagine how long it’ll take me to find another as worthy.”
I waited centuries for you.
Your chest tightens. It’s a wild thought, one that affects you more than he knows. It’s the kind of words used only by those male leads that have you sobbing at three a.m. when you finally have time to pick up a book. And you’re not stupid. You know he hasn’t literally been waiting for you–soulmates are just the thing of literature–but to be so simply told, veiled in a language the two of you speak, how much you mean to him? Overwhelming to say the least.
“Most people would just say ‘I love you, you scared me.’” It’s the most stupid thing to come out of your mouth especially in response to his previous declaration.
He rolls his eyes, the motion somehow elegant and arrogant, then again this is a royal God that you’re hopelessly in love with, so what do you expect? “That’s a terribly sentimental and cliche thing to say," he mutters, still drawing circles across the back of your hand. “I’d sooner cut off my own tongue than resort to such trite.”
I love you.
The three simple words sit on the tip of his tongue, unable to bring himself to say them… until he watches you try to sit up and your face contorts in pain, a harsh gasp escaping. He’s on his feet again instantly, hand hovering at your back as if to guide you. “Stop,” he snaps. “Just stay still. I'm here. I've got you."
I love you, my dearest mortal.
Whatever walls he’d still been clinging to shatter then. His hand trembles against your shoulder, eyes swimming with the kind of terror that strips him bare. The sight of even your pain is one he can no longer stomach, a development even he couldn’t prepare for. He remembers the days where his thoughts wouldn’t even stray to you after a mission, let alone if you were injured.
He swallows hard, black curls slipping from his ear as he confesses: "Don't ever scare me like that again. I... I can't lose you, do you understand? I can't."
“Loki–”
The sound of his name on your lips is his breaking point. Though that’s the thing about him. He hides behind walls he built himself decades ago, he lies and he insults, but the moment he lets an ounce of vulnerability slip in, the truth that comes with it amplifies.
His hand moves to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek reverently as if fearing you might disappear if he applies too much pressure. “I… I need you," he whispers, the words thick and shaky with emotion. "I can't... I can't live without you. You have to promise me not to… promise to be more careful."
The guilt twists sharp in your chest. “Okay.” You brush your hand through his hair, pulling the inky curls out of his eyes. “Okay,” you repeat, desperate for him to believe you.
He exhales a shaky breath, lowering his forehead against your temple. Another way to tether himself to you, ground himself in your existence. "You're stubborn, infuriating, reckless, impulsive," he lists, a trembled laugh escaping with it. "But... by Odin, you are my greatest achievement.”
“Greatest achievement?” You echo, brows knitting.
You feel the tug of his smile against your hair, before he turns your face up so you can see the pride and affection swelling in his eyes. His hand swallows your jaw, and his thumb continues the same pattern. “Yes. You are my greatest achievement. My reason for staying on the path of good, the one thing that gives me the will to fight on. You've broken down my walls, loved me when most would have given up on me. You've... changed me. Loving you is an honour I value much higher than any battle I have won. Just in case… I don’t tell you enough."
Your throat tightens. A tear spills from your eye before you can blink it away, and if he thinks it’s as pathetic as you do, he doesn’t say anything, only uses his thumb to catch it. You pull out of his grip, inching yourself over to make room on the small cot. Not that it would do anything for his ridiculous height.
He hesitates briefly before crawling into the bed and wrapping a long arm around your shoulders, careful not to touch your wound. Precious and fragile, he thought. But only for a second, because you’d kick his ass if he ever regarded you as such. For a few minutes you lie there together, comfortable and processing your own emotions. You can already feel him thinking.
“You want to say something mean to counteract all the sweetness, don’t you?” You huff into his chest.
He almost does. Almost. The urge to deflect with a snarky remark is practically ingrained in him and he already has several jabs to choose from at the forefront of his brain. But he couldn't. Not when you were pressed against him and safely nested in the circle of his arms. Not when he meant every word. Most certainly not when he’s trying to be better, to be kinder and more honest with you.
Instead he presses a soft kiss to your head, grumbling a deep: "Shut up."
You laugh muffles against him before you confess: “I need you too.”
He closes his eyes tight, the words melting his frozen heart. He pulls you impossibly closer, burying his face in your hair and inhaling the strawberry shampoo he steals from you like a drowning man gasping for air.
Safe. Alive. His.
He was a God. A prince. A master manipulator. But right now, he’s nothing but a man who is utterly, utterly terrified of losing the one person who has taught him to truly love.
all the jokes about Daeron chilling in Old Town while the other targtowers were experiencing The Horrors™ in King's Landing meanwhile Daeron was being raised by known Targaryen hater Ormund Hightower experiencing levels of catholic guilt Westeros has never seen again
𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 ୨ৎ it’s cpr training day at the tower. what could go wrong?
𝙬𝙘 ୨ৎ 2.8k
𝙖/𝙣 ୨ৎ hey y’all so this is HEAVILY inspired by the ep “stress relief pt1” from the office.
Today was CPR training day for the avengers.
Steve had insisted the team needed a refresher after Tony had very nearly given Bruce a heart attack during a mission. Tony insisted he’d been “thinking outside the box.” Bruce insisted he’d almost died from stress. Fury had sided with Steve, and just like that, everyone found themselves trapped in the conference room on an otherwise perfectly good afternoon.
It was painfully obvious that every single person would rather have been anywhere else.
Steve stood at the front of the room beside a CPR dummy laid out on the floor, arms folded neatly behind his back as though he were about to deliver the most important lecture of his life. The rest of the team were spread around the conference table in their usual groups. Tony occupied a seat at the front with Bruce beside him, already looking dangerously bored. Clint lounged next to Bruce with Natasha at his side, idly spinning a pen between his fingers. Wanda and Vision sat together across the table, while Sam and Bucky shared the opposite end, quietly debating whether they could fake a medical emergency to leave early.
At the very back, Y/n sat comfortably between Peter and Loki, her chin resting in one hand as she watched Steve arrange his notes with military precision.
Beside her, Loki slowly turned his head. “I fail to see why Rogers is instructing this course,” he murmured, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.
Y/n didn’t even look at him. “Because he has a certificate.” she said simply.
Loki gave an unimpressed huff and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “So do I,” he muttered.
Peter, who had unfortunately heard that much, looked over with genuine curiosity. “For CPR?”
Loki considered the question for a moment. “Not exactly…”
Before Y/n could ask the very obvious follow up question, Steve clapped his hands together to gather everyone’s attention. “Alright,” he began. “A, B, C, okay? And that stands for airway, breathing and circulation.”
Tony’s hand shot into the air despite the fact he had no intention of waiting to be called on. “Okay. You know what? That can be a little confusing because-”
“This is a face,” Loki interrupted with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “I should be teaching this course.”
Tony twisted around in his chair to glare at him. “Shut it, reindeer games. As if anyone would trust you to run a CPR course after the little stunt you pulled when you tried to, I don’t know…” He waved a hand vaguely. “Take over New York.”
Loki opened his mouth, undoubtedly preparing a response that would derail the seminar before it had properly begun.
Y/n saw it coming a mile away. She reached over and gave him a sharp whack on the arm. “Behave,” she muttered.
Loki looked down at where she’d hit him before slowly turning back to face the front with the expression of a man who had suffered a great injustice.
Steve cleared his throat loudly. “As I was saying…” He inhaled through his nose, forcing himself to remain patient. “Would anyone like to come up and demonstrate?”
Tony was on his feet before the sentence had even finished. “I’ll do it.” He immediately pointed at Bruce. “Come on, Banner. You’re my emotional support.”
Bruce blinked. “Uh… I don’t think-” He didn’t get the chance to finish before Tony grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him out of his chair.
Tony knelt confidently beside the dummy while Bruce lingered awkwardly behind him with his hands shoved into his pockets.
Steve crouched beside them. “Alright. So, first, you’re assessing the situation. Are they breathing?”
Tony looked down at the dummy for a long moment before answering with complete sincerity. “No, Steve. They aren’t breathing.” He tilted his head. “And they have no arms or legs.”
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “No… that’s not part of it.”
Tony ignored him. “Where are they?” he wondered aloud. “You know what? If we come across somebody with no arms or legs, do we bother resuscitating them?” He looked around the room as if he’d posed a genuinely thought-provoking question. “I mean, what kind of quality of life would we have there?”
At the back of the room, Y/n bit down on her lower lip, desperately trying to stop herself from laughing.
“I would wanna live with no legs,” Sam called from across the table.
Tony didn’t miss a beat. “How about no arms? Actually, no arms or legs is basically how you exist right now, Sam. You don’t do anything.”
“Alright,” Steve said, already sounding exhausted. “Let’s get back to it, because you’re losing him.”
Tony looked down at the dummy with mock concern. “Oh, no.” He immediately placed his hands back on the dummy’s chest and began compressions at an absurd speed, his arms pumping so quickly they were almost a blur.
“Whoa, whoa, too fast,” Steve interrupted, holding up both hands. He looked around at the rest of the team. “Everyone, you need to pump at a pace of one hundred beats per minute.”
Tony stopped, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, that’s, uh… hard to keep track.” He frowned thoughtfully. “How many is that per hour?”
Peter frowned, finally speaking up. “How’s that going to help you?”
“I will divide and then count to it.” Tony shot back.
Y/n slowly turned to Peter. “Isn’t he supposed to be a genius?”
Peter shrugged helplessly. “I’m starting to question it.”
Steve decided to ignore the conversation before it spiralled. “A good trick,” he explained, “is to pump to the tune of ‘Stayin Alive’ by the Bee Gees.”
Tony’s face lit up. “I love that song!” Without another word, he resumed compressions, enthusiastically singing at the top of his lungs. “First I was afraid, I was petrified-”
Steve closed his eyes. “No, Tony.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s, ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin alive… stayin alive.”
From across the room, Clint began drumming both hands against his knees, perfectly keeping time before joining in. “You can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk…”
A grin spread across Wanda’s face as she pushed herself out of her seat and began dancing around the conference room.
Tony immediately abandoned the dummy altogether, clapping along to Clint’s singing. Clint also stood from his seat.
The pair danced shamelessly towards Steve, who instinctively took a step backwards as they cornered him.
At the back of the room, Loki turned to look at Y/n. To his utter disbelief, she was absent-mindedly bumping her shoulders to the beat, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, gods,” he sighed. “Not you too.”
Y/n looked over at him, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Oh, come on.” She nudged him lightly with her elbow. “I saw that smile.”
Loki’s expression flattened instantly. “There was no smile.”
She let out a soft laugh. “Don’t act like you aren’t enjoying yourself.”
“I assure you, I am witnessing civilisation collapse before my very eyes.” He muttered.
Before Y/n could think of another comeback, Steve’s voice boomed across the conference room. “Okay!”
Y/n immediately straightened in her chair, folding her hands together as though she’d been paying close attention the entire time.
Steve looked seconds away from developing a migraine. “You didn’t maintain one hundred beats per minute,” he said, pointing accusingly at Tony. “And the ambulance didn’t arrive because nobody called 911. So you lost him.”
Then Loki calmly rose from his chair. “Okay,” he said matter-of-factly. “He’s dead.” He looked around the room. “Anybody know what we do next?”
“We bury him?” Natasha offered casually.
Loki shook his head. “Wrong.” He stepped towards the dummy with complete confidence. “We have to get rid of the evidence, and we only have minutes to check whether he has any identification on him.”
“He doesn’t have a wallet. I already checked,” Bucky called from his seat.
Without another word, a flash of green lit up Loki’s hand and a dagger materialised. He plunged the blade straight into the dummy’s torso and dragged it clean down the middle.
The room erupted. A chorus of horrified groans and disgusted shouts echoed around the conference room.
“Oh my god, Loki!” Wanda cried, half-rising from her chair. “What are you doing?!”
Loki didn’t even look up. “We get rid of all the body parts,” he explained matter of factly, continuing to slice through the plastic torso. “Including the insides.”
Y/n stared at him in absolute disbelief. “What the fuck!”
Steve’s head whipped towards her. “Language!”
She gestured wildly at the Asgardian currently performing what looked like an autopsy on a CPR dummy. “Seriously?! That’s what you’re worried about?”
Steve opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.
Across the room, Bruce had gone an alarming shade of pale. “Oh…” He swallowed hard. “Oh, God. I… I gotta sit down.”
Everyone’s attention immediately shifted away from Loki.
“Bruce?” Natasha was already on her feet.
Tony hurried over, taking Bruce gently by the arm and guiding him towards the nearest chair. “You aren’t gonna have a heart attack again on me, are you?” Tony asked with a crooked grin.
Bruce shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”
Y/n glanced over to make sure Bruce was alright. It couldn’t have been more than two seconds. When she looked back, Loki was standing perfectly still with his back to the room.
Slowly, he turned around to reveal the dummy’s plastic face had been peeled off and was stretched over his own like some grotesque mask.
The conference room exploded into chaos for the second time in less than two minutes.
“What the hell?!”
“Loki!”
“Oh my God!”
“Oh hell no!”
Peter’s horrified scream echoed around the room as he practically launched himself backwards in his chair, pointing an accusing finger at Loki with wide, traumatised eyes. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!”
Clint recoiled so violently he nearly tipped his chair over, while Wanda buried her face in Vision’s shoulder with a groan of pure disgust. Natasha simply stared at Loki for a long, silent moment, looking as though she was reconsidering every life choice that had led her to this room.
Y/n, meanwhile, completely lost it. A snort escaped before she could stop it and within seconds she was doubled over, laughing so hard her stomach hurt.
She knew she shouldn’t have been. It was, without question, one of the most disturbing things she’d ever laid eyes on. But the sheer absurdity of the situation- the CPR seminar, the impromptu disco, the plastic face now stretched over Loki’s own utterly serious expression- was simply too much. She laughed until tears blurred her vision.
Loki, still wearing the dummy’s face, slowly tilted his head towards her. “I fail to see what is amusing.”
At that exact moment, the conference room doors slid open. Thor strode inside, carrying an enormous mug in one hand. “I have returned with-” He stopped dead, his eyes landing on Loki with the horrifying mask over his face.
The mug slipped from his fingers, crashing onto the floor. He gasped, utterly aghast. “What have you done to my brother?!”
“ENOUGH!” Steve’s voice cracked through the conference room like a whip.
The entire room fell silent. Even Thor froze where he stood, still staring at Loki in utter disbelief.
Y/n hastily wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, swallowed the last of her laughter and cleared her throat. As if nothing had happened, she straightened in her chair, folded her hands neatly on the table and fixed her attention on Steve with the expression of a model student.
Steve took one long, steady breath. “I’ve spent the last hour trying to teach basic lifesaving skills,” he began, his voice dangerously calm, “and somehow we’ve gone from CPR…” He pointed at Tony. “…to karaoke…”
Tony opened his mouth, but Steve silenced him with a look. Then his gaze shifted to Loki, who was still standing in the middle of the room wearing the dummy’s plastic face. “And take that goddamn mask off!”
Loki regarded him for a moment before silently peeling the plastic face away from his own. With complete indifference, he dropped it onto the floor beside the mangled dummy and walked back to his chair as though nothing remotely unusual had occurred.
Peter, on the other hand, quietly picked up his chair and dragged it a little closer to the conference room door.
After an entirely unspoken agreement, the team decided it was probably best not to continue the seminar. Steve looked too mentally exhausted to argue, Bruce still looked faint, and the CPR dummy was beyond saving.
The class was officially over.
Y/n escaped to the kitchen with Peter, grateful to put as much distance between herself and the conference room as possible. While Peter perched on one of the stools at the island, she busied herself making two coffees, a welcome change from the absolute circus she’d just witnessed.
Around the Tower, everyone dispersed to do their own thing. Clint disappeared with Natasha, Sam and Bucky resumed their usual bickering as they wandered down the hallway, and Steve could be seen carrying what remained of the CPR dummy towards the bin.
As she turned around to pass Peter his mug, Loki was standing directly behind her. She jumped slightly before squeezing her eyes shut. “How many times,” she sighed, rubbing her temple, “have I told you not to do that?”
Loki stepped aside with no urgency and Y/n slipped past him, handing Peter his coffee.
“Cheers,” Peter said, accepting it before wandering over to the kitchen island where Tony was already enthusiastically recounting the seminar to an increasingly traumatised Thor.
Loki folded his hands behind his back. “Fury wishes to speak with me.”
Y/n looked up from her coffee, a grin instantly spreading across her face. “Cap snitched on you to Fury?” She let out a laugh. “You’re screwed, man.”
Loki’s expression didn’t change. “We,” he corrected calmly, “are screwed.”
Y/n’s smile disappeared. “What do you mean ‘we’?”
“You are accompanying me.” He said, as if it was already decided. As if she didn’t have a choice.
Her face dropped. “What? I can’t go in there!” She instinctively glanced around the kitchen before leaning in, lowering her voice to a hurried whisper as though Fury might somehow materialise behind her. “Fury hates me.”
Loki regarded her for a moment. “If he hates you,” he said evenly, “what, exactly, do you suppose he thinks of me?”
Y/n opened her mouth to respond, but she didn’t exactly have an answer for that. Instead, she pointed an accusing finger at him. “Yeah, okay, but i’m not the one who decided to cut the face off of a CPR dummy and wear it as a mask. This is on you.”
Loki took a slow step closer, one eyebrow arching. “If I remember correctly,” he said, “you were laughing the entire time.”
Y/n let out an exasperated scoff. “You’re insane.”
“I am not insane-”
“No, you’re insane.” She jabbed a finger into his chest for emphasis. “I’m not going down with you just because I happened to find your complete psychological breakdown funny.”
Loki looked almost offended. “You Midgardians are terribly dramatic.”
Before Y/n could fire back another sarcastic remark, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the common room.
Both of them looked up. Steve entered first, arms folded across his chest, with Fury following a step behind him.
The moment Y/n saw them, her entire demeanour changed. She straightened immediately, took a very innocent sip of her coffee and adopted the expression of someone who had never done anything wrong in her entire life.
Loki glanced sideways at her. “Convincing,” he murmured.
She smiled without looking at him. “Shut up.”
“Loki.” Fury’s voice cut through the room. “Conference room. Now.”
Loki inclined his head in acknowledgement before turning to Y/n, leaning in just enough that only she could hear him. “You’re coming with me.”
“No, I’m not,” she replied through gritted teeth, refusing to look at him.
“Oh, Y/n,” Steve called over his shoulder as he fell into step behind Fury. “You’re coming too.”
Y/n closed her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Steve either didn’t hear her or wisely chose not to acknowledge it. Beside her, a slow, thoroughly smug smirk spread across Loki’s face.
Y/n looked at him with immediate irritation. “Wipe that smirk off your face.”
⇝ includes ; nightcrawler, gambit, johnny storm, wolverine, loki, spider-man
⇝ a/n ; goodness gracious hello everyone i dyed my hair had a crisis or two and now i'm back. DONT WORRY i will still be writing for genshin & hsr, i just needed to splurge on my current hyperfixation ... enjoy!
kurt wagner is a geniune pleasure to be around, and even more so to be in a relationship with. he's kindhearted, faithful, and observant. in short, the boy is the picture perfect boyfriend. i'd let him date my daughter.
our favorite blue boy would call you names like "liebling", "mein schatz", or "mein engel". he'd bamf into your personal space after a long day, collapse against your shoulder, and mumble ; "i missed you dearly, liebling," into the fabric of your shirt.
he worries that his appearance - his not-quite-human hands and blue skin - will deter you someday. when he touches you, it's light, gentle, like you are glass about to break, and he's ready to pull away at a moment's notice, if you are ever uncomfortable.
if you ask, he'd happily share parts of his faith with you. he would teach you to properly light incense, tell you biblical stories, pray for you. he never presses or pushes, simply shares. late night talks about theology turn into confessions about identity and worship, he's a very good listener.
he likes to lay in bed with you, a book in one hand and his other combing through your hair. his chest is a soft pillow beneath your head, the sound of turning pages is a metronome that lures you to sleep hours before he shuts his eyes. he doesn't mind that you always drift off - kurt's just happy to be included!
if you're a mutant or x-man, he'd be glad to train and spar with you - mostly just to teleport behind you and wrap his arms around your waist. he'd never admit it, but he relishes the way you blush and squirm. if you glare at him, he'd just smile innocently, "schatz, you cannot stay angry when i am this charming."
when you're upset, he goes out of the way to make you smile or laugh again - theatrical voices, exaggerated bows, over-the-top declarations of love, anything to see your lips curve upwards.
his tail wraps around your wrist sometimes on instinct, when you're walking together, or asleep, a simple pressure to reassure you that he's there.
kurt believes you are the only proof he needs that god loves him.
if gambit is your boyfriend, you are cher now. there's no debate about it. that's about the only thing he'll call you - maybe 'mon amour' if he's feeling particularly romantic.
uses his sticky fingers to take things from you, just to tease. he'll swipe a ring from your finger or your wallet from your back pocket without you noticing and hold it just out of reach if you try to get it back. he grins when you lean in close and make a grab at your items.
he physically cannot keep his hands to himself. he's always putting an arm around you, threading your hands together, hooking a finger in your belt loop to pull you close and kiss you deeply ... it's kind of hard to get away from him.
if you nudge him away, he'd raise his hands in surrender, lips swollen from kissing, "alright, alright, i see how it is." and backs off. for now.
teaches you card games (along with how to cheat). if you ask nicely, he might show you how to throw them, too. standing behind you, hands guiding yours. very illegal, very sexy.
sleeping next to you is one of the few times he actually lets his guard down. he slings an arm over your waist, buries his face in your shoulder or chest, and sleeps like the dead til late in the morning. it's a good sign, it means he trusts you entirely.
deeply protective. keeps a hand on your lower back in thick crowds, watches for pickpockets, and always positions himself a little closer to danger. he won't risk you.
opens up about his past to you, and doesn't beat around the bush about it. "i wasn't a good person, cher. still ain't. don't feel like you gotta hang around a thief like me."
you assure him that you don't care, that he is a good person, and you swear you see a visible weight lift from his shoulders.
remy doesn't open up easily, but sharing his guilt with you, hearing your reassurances, it makes him look at you like you hung the stars - like you're an anchor in a storm.
oh, johnny storm, professional playboy, inexperienced partner.
he's used to flings, to pretty girls or guys that he shares a drink or a dance with and then forgets about. but then you come along and all of the sudden he's thrown into something he doesn't want to lose in a few hours.
don't get me wrong. he's still a menace, a flirt, and a kid at heart. he's always showing off, lighting candles or cigarettes with unnecessary flames licking up his arm to impress you - "relax, babe, i got this."
but there are the moments, the things you notice. his shaking hands, the way he cups your face, the way he looks at you - eyes so full of adoration - those are the things that convince you he sees you as more than a fun night.
he gets jealous easily. so easily. and he's not subtle about it. he's petty. if someone gets too close or too forward with you, he'd waltz up beside you and tug you into his side, a forced smile on his face, "hi -" he says to the offender, gesturing pointedly to himself, - "boyfriend." he'd turn to you then, "hey, BABE. remember when you promised to get dinner? let's go."
you never promised anything like that, but he tugs you away anyways, glancing over his shoulder to give that guy a 'i'm watching you' glare.
calls you "babe" or "hot stuff" and means it.
he likes to pick you up. bridal style, over his shoulder, spinning in his arms. he'll trap you in place so he can pepper kisses over your face, relishing in the way you laugh.
he gets competitive over literally anything and everything. video games, cooking, who can kiss longer. unfortunately, he's not the type to let you win. he is, however, the type to pout and whine when you beat him anyways.
johnny sees himself as the weakest link in the fantastic four. the youngest, the most reckless, the problem, so to say. tell him you're proud of him, or that you see how hard he tries, and he melts instantly, all goo-goo eyes and dreamy smiles, "aw, geez, babe - i mean. i know. of course i know that. i'm awesome."
he's hyper, he's active and touchy and reckless and on fire most of the time, but he lets himself cool off around you.
wolverine is prime grumpy x sunshine material. he's the grump. obviously. he pretends not to like your affection, or to be annoyed at any enthusiasm, but he grumbles when you pull away and sighs when things are too quiet.
logan is careful around you. he heals. you don't. he doesn't so much as think about drawing his claws around you. if you get a paper cut, he's hovering, muttering something about 'infections' as he hands you a band aid.
he smells like leather and cedar. you steal his jackets - they're huge on you - and he pretends not to care. he likes when you sit on the hood of a car as he fixes it. what can he say? it's a nice view.
he's kind of feral. he loves when you scratch his scalp or run your fingers through his hair (not that he'd ever admit that). when you're alone, he'll lay his head in your lap with a tired groan, peeking one judgmental eye open until you card your fingers through his tangled locks.
typa guy to bite. do with that what you will.
he's a glorified blanket when he's asleep. he rolls over, resting his entire weight on your body, and doesn't move again til morning.
very domestic boyfriend. he'll wake up before you and slip out of bed to make breakfast. he fixes things around your place before you can get around to it - you'll wake up one day and have a working sink again.
he'd call you "my girl" or "my guy" and then move on with his day.
if someone's getting too close, he shoves at their shoulder so they stumble away from you, "find someone else to bother, bub." he grunts, slinging an arm around your shoulder.
he'd take a bullet or a knife for you, grumbling about how, "next time, you should duck," when you fuss over him. kiss his scars and he'll malfunction.
logan might act like he doesn't do relationships, but he's pretty damn devoted to you.
loki is dramatic, obsessive, eccentric. but, despite all that, he's completely and utterly entranced by you.
pet names are excessive. "my darling", "my heart", "mortal", "dearest", whatever he can think of to fluster you.
he uses his magic to conjure illusions for you. green flowers appear in your hand, his outfit changes to something you offhandedly mentioned you like seeing on men, his words are emphasized by a gust of wind that came out of nowhere.
he also brings you artifacts as gifts - though they may be cursed. "it's enchanted," he says as he presses a glowing stone into your hand. he'll remove it from the premises before it erupts, no need to worry.
jealous in a 'i'm disgusted by any man that isn't me' type of way. "enjoyed his company, did you?" he'll ask, "what horrid taste you have."
he's touchy. but not in that johnny storm, golden retriever way, in a more elegant way. a hand on your waist or at the small of your back, his finger tilting your chin up so you'll look at him, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes by.
definitely recites poetry to you, bowing before you and extending his hand to offer a rose. please play along with his theatrics, he thinks himself very alluring. you'll hurt his feelings if you tell him the truth.
like i said, he's dramatic. he takes every small thing from you as a sign that he's failed and you've fallen out of love. you sigh quietly? he's at your side with a frown in a second, "do you tire of me already, mortal?"
he thinks you're extraordinary. not because you're powerful or strong, though you very well may be, but because you chose to stay with him.
loki is intense, sometimes too intense. but his love for you isn't malicious, it isn't lust or control or anything of the sort. it's love in a "i would choose you in every timeline" kind of way. love that transcends mortality and godhood. though that love is only a small part of your mortal life, it lasts an eternity for him.
peter parker is already anxious. you make it so much worse! but in the best way possible. you make his hands sweat and his mind race and his words slip up. he sometimes forgets you're dating and he's allowed to touch you and kiss you and talk to you.
tries to flirt. trips over his words. "you look pretty today. not that you don't always look pretty - you're always pretty i just .. never mind."
when he remembers he's already you're boyfriend, he still acts like he needs explicit permission. he'll tap your pinky with his when he wants to hold hands, pause inches away from you when he wants to kiss, and slowly, so slowly wrap his arms around you at night, giving you ample time to pull away.
protective in a nervous way. "hey, are you safe?" "text me when you get home - actually call me. actually facetime me." "i can walk you home - if you want, i mean."
type of guy to stick a love letter to your window with a web or sneak into your dorm in the middle of the night to bring you flowers. he tugs his mask off with a grin, "i know, i know, i'll be quick." he whispers, shoving the flowers into your hands, kissing your cheek, and swinging back into the city.
the spider-man kiss happens a lot. he really likes it.
he says 'i love you' first and it's probably on accident. after, he's all, "i just - i mean - i wanted to tell you - you don't have to say it back! unless you want to -"
please cut him off. he won't stop talking unless you do.
nerds out to you about science or movies or video games. he wants you to watch all of his favorites - but he'll talk during them, "did you know that guy is in dune? yeah, and he's also in ..."
he likes when you compliment him. it makes him preen and puff out his chest like a proud bird. tell him "you're really strong." and he'll say, "really? you think so? i mean - yeah, yeah, uh, spiders and their proportional strength and all of that."
falls asleep ALL THE TIME when you two are together. partly because he barely sleeps at home, but mostly because you're just so warm and so easy to lean against and you smell so good .. yeah, poor guy is out like a light.
aunt may approves of you.
peter is the type of boyfriend to kiss you like you'll slip away, to grasp your hands like it's the greatest honor. he's so very proud to have won you over.
Imagine Loki trying to explain that you loved him in another timeline…
“You’re telling me that we fall in love?” You frowned, skeptical at the very notion.
Loki nodded. “It was me first.” He admitted.
“And then we were married?”
“A private affair in Asgard.” Loki explained and then tilt his head. “Well actually, that was after a rather long engagement in which I was still trying to get revenge and such.”
Huffing, you crossed your arms and looked over to Mobius. “Have I missed the annual day of TVA jests or-?”
Mobius stepped forward, shaking his head. “No, this is all real. Trust me.”
You were only entertaining the thought because Mobius was your friend and he wasn’t in the business of lying. As you thought on the information, Loki filled your vision once more.
“Think about it, that ring you wear. Where did it come from?” The trickster asked.
You glanced down at your hand and stared at the adorned band around your finger.
“I- I don’t know. It was given to me by someone special. He said it was like a piece of his-”
“His heart on your hand.” Loki whispered and when you looked up at him, he smiled. “Yes.”
“How did you know…”
“Because I said exactly that when I gave it to you.” Loki said, his voice was earnest and almost pleading.
What he was telling you didn’t make any sense - but it also made perfect sense. How could both be a truth? You stepped back and away from him. Another word from him might actually cause a break in your reality. So, you excused yourself and ran off to the library to think.
Loki looked at Mobius and noticed that he man was staring at him. “Something wrong?”
“No.” Mobius answered quickly. “It just baffles me that you loved them so much and you still insisted on revenge.”
summary: Ormund Hightower has been the guiding hand pushing you forward all your life. Teaching, shaping, and disciplining whenever necessary. His affections are unconventional and at times even violent, yet you cannot help but want his teeth in your heart anyway.
warnings: +18 mdni, explicit content, age gap, size difference, otk spanking, toxic relationship dynamics, reader is rhaenyra's daughter but has lived in oldtown for most of her life, power imbalances, could be said that reader is being groomed but she (like the writer) very much wants this evil man all on her own, light angst, mentions of canon typical violence, punishment, kneeling, begging, praise, sexual tension, clit stimulation, pillow humping, talk of maidenhood/virtue, bd/sm dynamics, ormund licks your tears, dry humping, oral sex f!receiving, possessive behavior, cruel devotion, discussion of marriage, jealousy, repressed feelings, body worship, virginity loss, dirty talk, face grabbing, scenting? girl idk, rough sex, multiple orgasm, creampie, collaring, lightly edited, images are purely for aesthetic purposes, reader has no physical description!
wc: 9.2k
note: if a single person asks for a part two………i may be….persuaded……..
[masterlist][AO3]
He's never liked you, that much was obvious in his stare alone.
You'd been sent to Oldtown with your cousin Daeron at your grandfather's request. Viserys had wanted it to be a sign of a united family. It had been done in a time of peace with pure intentions.
How would they have known of Ormund's hatred for Valyrian blood? How would they have known that a single look upon your face would have the man's jaw clenching and his hands curling?
For what it's worth, you truly believe he tried in the beginning. Tried not to allow his prejudice to cloud his judgment of you. But it was always there, like a curse held at the back of his throat. Too large to swallow, too cruel to speak.
He loved your cousin and treated Daeron as if he were born of his own blood. But though you were often found in the same trouble, Ormund's display of discipline was always a bit different when directed at you.
Not only a raised voice but a physical punishment, too.
A rough hand on the back of your neck. A lashing across your knuckles. Fingers curled tight around your jaw.
You'd let yourself believe that things would change when you became a woman grown. It is one thing to discipline a girl with the intent of guidance, but it is another thing to strike a lady.
The solution was to discipline in private.
Once, you'd gotten caught stealing wine from the kitchens in the dead of night. And when Ormund had been told of your transgression, he'd come to your bedchamber alone. Sat on the side of your mattress, fingers gentle as they stroked your cheek.
He shook you awake, and pretended at patience while you rubbed away the drunken stupor from your eyes.
And then he'd explain, "I am hard on you because I care. Because I see the potential beneath all your corruption. I understand it is not your fault you have such atrocity in your blood. I am only teaching you to overcome it. And you have much yet to learn, sweetling."
This is the first time Ormund takes you over his knee.
His palm lands sharp and hard across your bottom, five good times for each and every cup you'd stolen. He makes you count, and does not comment on the tears as they brim at the corners of your eyes.
The first time is the worst, because you hadn't expect it.
But by the tenth time it stops being a surprise and starts to become an expectation.
The routine is always the same. The sun will set, and he will slink into your chambers. Sometimes he doesn't even speak. He will simply stare down at you where you lay, head tilted, eyes dark, and you'll whisper apologies in the flickering candlelight.
He is meaner, you come to notice, when he is encumbered by duty. His strikes are harder and there are more of them. Sometimes he will spend hours in a day listening to petitions or dispersing soldiers or politicking with lords who come to him with future propositions.
On these nights, Ormund will groan low in his throat when you twist in his grasp, your legs flailing as you run from the impact of his tingling palm. But he will always wait for you to compose yourself, and then he'll lift his own leg over yours to bracket you in place, all before striking you again.
It is only after several months of this routine of discipline that you begin to wonder if it is less for your sake and more for his.
On one particular night, you're on strike eight out of ten, the number gritted through your teeth as you speak it aloud. Your breath comes fast and labored in your chest, lungs burning as you greedily drink up oxygen. Your muscles tire of pulling tight in anticipation only to melt in relief as the pain disperses across your skin.
It is later than usual, and you'd spent the day on horseback, and you're so exhausted that you fold your hands over one another and lay your head atop them. Face turned, you steal a glance up at Ormund to find his lips parted and his shoulders relaxed.
Posture far different than it had been when he'd closed your chamber door behind him.
You force your eyes to stay open as he hits you again, observing the look on his face.
Troublesome and argumentative woman you are, you're smart enough to recognize solace when you see it.
"Nine," you say, though it is more of a whisper than a fully spoken word.
Ormund notices.
His eyes find yours, gaze heavy and intense, as if he were seeing something inside of you that he could not put a name to if he tried.
This time, when his palm comes down against your cheek, it is hard enough that the sound echoes against the stone walls.
Your eyes squeeze shut and your ears ring and you can hear and feel and sense nothing but the heat of him beneath you and the pain he elicits. Breathing does not come easily. Each inhale is short and labored and choking.
"Count," Ormund says, the word low and demanding, the way he so often is.
You cannot catch your breath.
"Count, girl," he repeats. "Or we will begin again."
A spark of fear ignites in your chest, because you could not endure another ten lashes. Not like this, not knowing this is not even about the cruel words you'd spoken to your septa but rather for his own selfish respite.
"Ten!" The word is rushed. "Ten, ten, ten—!"
His hand smooths over your spine, as if to heal the ache he himself inflicted. "Very good," he whispers, shushing your cries. "You did so well."
The following morning, your flesh stings and bruises have already begun to form, but all you can think of is the way his praise had made your heart sing inside the cage of your ribs. The words echo in your mind, a mantra, a song, a poem.
The feeling is only because it is so rare to hear such things from his mouth, you tell yourself. It is not for desire. You could not desire a man like Ormund, could you? Who'd shaped you into the woman you are. Who saw such corruption in you and had spent the better half of your life trying to root it out.
But no matter how hard you try, you cannot shake the look you'd seen on his face. Like he'd enjoyed it.
And because you are stubborn and far too curious, you conduct an experiment to disprove your theory.
For weeks, you try very hard to be good. You go to your lessons without complaint, you listen to your septas, you pray to the seven and deny yourself excess in all forms.
You speak kindly. You cling tight to poise. You cast your eyes away when a man speaks to you and bow graciously instead of arguing or challenging a direction, no matter how stupid it may be.
You are perfect.
It is the longest you have gone without punishment in all your life.
But the stretch of time only lasts so long. And you wake late one night to find Ormund standing at your bedside, hovering.
Staring, with that same look he's leveled at you for years—not disgust, but something more complex. Something hotter. Searing.
You lift yourself up on an elbow and ask timidly, "Did I do something wrong?"
His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. "No."
Somehow, his answer is worse than if he had found a reason to punish you. Because this meant you were right, that his discipline was not only for you. It meant there was something else beneath it all.
It meant that this perverse craving in your chest that you have tried to fight off was not only yours. It was shared.
"If I've not done anything wrong, then what are you—?"
"Get up." He lifts his hand, motioning for you to remove yourself from the comfort of you linens, finally breaking the intensity of his stare.
And because you have been trained to heed his every beck and call, you do exactly as he says.
He sits at the edge of your bed, the way he always does. And you stand in front of him awaiting instruction, the way you always do.
Your heart feels suddenly too large, pushing against your bones.
He is supposed to say, kneel. He is supposed to say, over my knee. He is supposed to say, do you know what you've done?
Ormund does not.
Instead, he says, "Take off your gown."
You blink in surprise, unsure if perhaps this is a test. Maybe he's temping you, goading for a reason. Trying to get you to reveal yourself, to sacrifice your modesty so that he might prove you are just as wicked as he believes you to be.
"What?"
"Your gown," he says again, voice firmer now. "Take it off. Do not make me repeat myself."
You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel suddenly frozen. Afraid to move, afraid to say one thing when he truly means for you to do another, and—
Ormund stands suddenly and his hands are on you. Big and rough and mean, tearing the lace fabric over your chest so hard it leaves indents against your shoulder blades. Your nightclothes are thin and give so easily beneath his violence.
You do not stop him. You don't even try.
You don't want to.
Before you can fully process what's happening, you're standing completely bare before him, white fabric pooled at your feet. Your nipples harden beneath the night's cool air and your heart hammers in your ribcage.
He is not shameful in his assessment of you. His eyes are greedy and roaming, leaving no part of you untouched, starting at the curve of your throat and the the swell of your breasts, and eventually lower down to your navel and the space between your legs.
Ormund stares, and his lips part on a hollow sigh. His hand comes up to cup his jaw, squeezing hard, trying to rub the tension away.
You want so badly to hear the thoughts in his mind but know better than to ask.
Does he think you're beautiful? Does he like the shape of your body? Does he enjoy the softness of your skin, or the scent of honeysuckle oils at your pulse point? Are you womanly enough for him?
Does he want you? Does he think of you, the way you have him? Do you appear in his dreams, too?
He clears his throat, the sound masculine and powerful, startling you out of your reverie. And then he sits back down on the edge of your bed and says, "Kneel."
You do.
"Over my knee."
This instruction, too, you follow.
Warmth blooms low in your belly at the texture of his leather breeches against the top of your bare thighs.
He doesn't ask if you're aware of your transgressions, because there are none.
Ormund sets one hand on the small of your back, and the other comes to rest against the globe of your arse. His hands are calloused. Rough. Hardened from the weight of a sword.
And above all, they are…delightful. Delicious. "How—" you swallow thickly. "How many?"
His hands are gentle as they stroke your skin. Feather light and mistakenly devoted. Ormund leans forward, lips a breadth away from your ear as he answers, "As many as I'd like."
And then his hand comes down sharply, the sound of skin against skin a piercing echo.
A whine leaves you, and it takes a moment to gather yourself enough to choke out, "One."
He hits you again, and again, and again—and each time those delicate touches in between last just a bit longer. As if he is able to find peace in your punishment, granting him the gift of softness.
Everything feels hot. Your skin, your hands, the place between your legs. It throbs and aches and grows stickier by the minute.
You think he must see it. He must. Each strike has your spine arching, exposing you even more, the number more of a moan on your lips than a cry.
It is around number six that you begin to feel him harden beneath you.
The swell of his cock presses against your belly, right beside your navel. Growing larger with each loud echo.
He does not mention it, and neither do you. But your head feels fuzzy with the truth of it.
Ormund settles around strike fifteen. You are certain it will be painful to sit tomorrow, but you can't find yourself in it to care when he traces delicate patterns over your warmed flesh with the tips of his cool fingers.
The praise comes after some time, when your muscles relax in his hold, when you stop expecting one more strike to befall you.
"You always look so beautiful in the aftermath," he mutters. and you feel yourself smiling, despite your better impulses. "Pretty, obedient little girl."
His hands knead at your sore skin, squeezing the pillowy flesh and spreading you open. You look up to see him staring at your most intimate place, likely seeing the wetness that's gathered.
He then does one more thing you don't expect.
With only the pad of his thumb, Ormund slides his finger through your slit.
The touch is firm and so unforeseen that it sends a jolt straight to your heart. You let out a true cry this time, but not of pain.
Of pleasure.
You're so sensitive that your muscles clench at the contact, so lost in the feeling that you hardly hear the low groan that rumbles through his chest.
And then he's pushing you off of his lap onto your bed, and standing to his feet. He does not even spare you a parting glance over his shoulder as he says, "Enough for today."
You do not see him again for some time.
In fact, Ormund leaves Oldtown entirely the next morning and he takes Daeron with him. It is only from your septa's that you learn they've set on a quest to deliver goods to the Citadel.
Usually Ormund will mention as much to you over supper with your cousin, and you cannot help thinking the reason for his sudden and unannounced absence is due to what transpired between you the night before.
And to yourself only, you admit his absence has made you yearn for him.
You cannot quiet the thoughts in your mind each night, the longing for him, the hope that he will simply appear at your bedside with a heavy hand and that familiar stare.
But he never does, and left to your own devices with thoughts of his touch invading your every thought, it is not long before you try desperately to abate the need yourself.
In fact, you form a new routine of your own.
It starts as desperate rocking against nothing, but you learn rather quickly just how much better it feels with your linens wedged tight between your legs as you do.
The bulk of the fabric presses deliciously against your center, and each roll of your hips has your vision turning black around the edges. You can think only of Ormund—your mentor, your disciplinarian, the hand that shaped you.
You think of the force behind his strikes and of his low groans and of his sweet, sweet praise. You think of the darkness in his eyes and of his strong jaw and the way the muscles in his shoulders flex when he moves.
Even his gait makes your belly squeeze tight in desire—the surety in his steps, his confident posture and the way he towers over you. Always so big and hulking and intimidating.
Sleep only comes to you each night after you reach the peak of bliss. After a fog clouds your mind and your vision goes all starry.
You think if Ormund were to see the things you'd been up to in his absence, you don't believe fifteen strikes would be nearly enough.
He would tell you it is a sin to indulge lustful fantasies in this way. That your pleasure is reserved for your husband, meant to be given at his discretion.
But you've never been a perfect listener nor a rule follower. If there is anything in your life you are certain of, it is that.
You allow yourself to freely walk about the tower in his absence, too. The rookery and the kitchens, plucking fruit or cheese from nearby trays and sending ravens to your cousin Helaena in the Red Keep.
You visit the stables to pet the horses and even make friends with a bastard boy who'd recently come to Oldtown from Casterly Rock.
When Ormund does finally return, you're there to greet him in the great hall with a flicker of delight in your chest.
He looks the same as when he'd left. Strong, masculine, confident. His skin is maybe a bit more sun-kissed than before, and his normally polished leather boots are caked in mud.
Yet still, you cannot help but smile when you see him. You'd worn your most beautiful dress, a gown of emerald velvet and white lace, low cut with a jeweled bodice. He'd complimented you on it once, several moons ago, and it has been your favorite ever since.
When he comes to stand in front of you in greeting, you bow low. "My lord," you say. "I am grateful for your return."
His eyes stay glued to yours when you rise, his pert mouth turned up at the corners. "I am grateful to be back," he says, taking your hand in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips.
Ormund's kiss is chaste, but it feels anything but. The simple touch of his hand has your belly flipping and your face heating.
He does not linger long, though you wish he would. But there is much to tend to in the keep, things that have simply been awaiting his return.
The cooks prepare a feast that night. A massive spread for both Ormund and the knights that traveled with him.
Ormund sits at the head of the table and Daeron sits to his right. You are placed on the other side of your cousin, who spends most of the night recounting tales of the Citadel to you. Of the towering stacks of books and the tomes bigger than his head.
He tells you in a whispered tone just how old the Grand Maester truly looks. "Ancient," he explains. "With tufts of graying hair and eyes that no longer see."
You laugh and giggle together about it, indulging your childish whims that always manifest whenever you are near him.
Daeron tells you, too, about the ambush they'd suffered from raiders who's been lying in wait off the King's Road.
"Uncle Ormund nearly died from a stab wound," he whispers, and it makes your heart give a sudden lurch. "He fought bravely. Slashed the raider clean in two, if you'd believe it."
This makes you mirth fall. You have never considered his loss before this moment. Ormund has always been there, a steady presence in your life.
Just the thought of it—of losing him, it does not sit well in your gut. Though hated by him as you are, you could not imagine...you could not imagine.
Ormund does not speak to you, but you can feel his stare. Heavy and warm on the side of your face. You wonder silently if he'd missed you as you have him.
Had he been thinking of that night, too? Of how it had felt to be bared before him? Of the heat you saw in his gaze?
Had he thought of you with a blade pressed to his belly? Had it truly gotten that close?
Ormund makes a toast to his men near the end of supper. To their valiant efforts that contributed greatly to the trade and to their protection.
Your maidens ready you for bed that night and spend a little longer scrubbing you clean at your request. They dress you in white silk and by the time they leave, the fire in the hearth has dwindled to cinders. The excitement in your chest is a roaring flame, however.
But, Ormund does not come to you.
You toss and turn restlessly, hoping to hear the creak of your chamber door or footsteps on the stone just outside.
Yet, there is nothing. The night is still, as it has been for the last several weeks.
You lie there with a longing in your chest, an ache between your legs, and your head filled with a thousand questions.
The setting sun has long since given way to the moon by the time you leave your bed.
Ormund's chambers are on the other side of the Hightower, but you are more and more certain with every step you take.
Ser Roy of Oldtown stands guard outside his door, the way he does most nights. He bows low when he sees you, eyes cast away from the too thin fabric of your gown. "My lady."
"I wish to speak to him," you say, trying to muster the strength to keep your voice from wavering.
"He did request not to be disturbed lest there was an emergency," the knight tells you.
"I don't care," is your simple response, because it is true. "Please, ser, step aside so that I might—"
Ormund's door opens, the heavy weight of it daunting.
He looks at you and stares. Hard and knowing.
Your breath gives way at the precision attention, all the jumbled thoughts in your mind untangling like a pulled thread before promptly vanishing. There is…something new behind his ire for you. Something you might call intrigue, if you didn't know any better.
Ormund does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks. "Find something to busy yourself, Ser Roy," he says, eyes searching your face now, flickering from your nose to your cheeks and then to your mouth. "And do not come back," he adds to the knight.
Roy nods stiffly and doesn't argue. He, too, knows better.
The clang of his armor disappears down the corridor, and before long it is just you and the man who haunts your insides. Heart and head alike.
He smiles down at you. A true smile. Small, but real, and it weathers your resolve in an instant. Because it's a kindness he does not give freely or often, but he is here now, giving it to you—who you'd thought he'd hated.
But this doesn't feel like hatred to you in the slightest.
It's heavier. Sharper. Sweeter.
In the end, it is you who breaks the spell, pushing past him and into his chambers. You recall all your cousin had said about the journey to the Citadel. How blades had been drawn and blood had been spilled and the thought of it makes your eyes sting.
Ormund closes the chamber door behind you, but you face away from him. Staring into the crackling flames in the hearth, trying and failing to fight the tears that brim in your eyes. "Daeron told me there was an…altercation on the King's Road," you say. "He speaks tales of blood and death. Is this true?"
His heavy footfalls sound in your ears. Ormund nears you, yet you still do not turn to look at him. "It is," he answers simply. "These are dark times, as you well know. Darker yet to come."
The idea of it—of war, of famine, of the rot and loss that he speaks of, it makes you terrified. You've seen men die before, in jousts or tourneys, even on the way here to Oldtown. But thinking of Ormund in the middle of it all?
Finally, you turn to face him. He is closer than you'd expected. Only a single step away, focus narrowing as he sees the tears in your eyes. "You could have died."
"But I did not." His head tilts curiously. "Where do you place your ire?"
"In you!" You should not yell. You know this, and yet the venom in your mouth refuses to be washed out. "It is from someone else that I'd had to learn you'd been attacked on the way to the Citadel. From another I'd learned you'd taken a wound that very nearly could have put you in the grave. And even those details I'd had to overhear from one of your men when it should have come from you!"
He watches it unfold; your rage surfacing, all masks of poise absent. He does not stop you or speak a warning into existence, he only watches with curiosity on his face and something far more intense alongside it.
"I have longed for your return for weeks! You leave without a word and take my cousin with you, leaving me to sit all alone and wonder if perhaps I'd done something wrong or worse—disappointed you!" Your tears fall freely down your cheeks now, but you are far past the point of sparing yourself any embarrassment.
Ormund raises his hand to your face, cradling your head in his palm. His thumb strokes gently across your cheek, swiping your tears away. "Is it for me that you weep, sweetling?"
Yes, you want to say. Yes, of course it is. He is everything to you and has always been. "Do you have any idea how I would have mourned you?"
His eyes soften, and it soothes something inside of you to see it. Ormund leans forward slowly, carefully so as not to frighten you.
And you stand there, frozen in the gentle hold of his hands, as he licks the tears from your cheeks. His tongue is warm and soothing against your ruddy skin, and it feel so intimate that it makes you shiver.
He then kisses your eyelids. The left first, followed by the right. "I cannot promise to tell you of each of my wounds," he says, voice softer than it's ever been before. "But I can promise to warn you before I leave the tower again. I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me after all I've done, in truth."
"Glad?" The thought does not register in your mind. "I could never be glad of your absence. I confess, I…I hate it."
"Is that right?" Ormund takes a step back, and you see him inhale a shaking breath as he does. "More than you hate me?"
You wish you could deny the words, but you cannot. You've hated him all your life—the man who'd always looked at you as if your very blood was wrong, who'd never hesitated to raise a hand to you, who'd been cruel and rigid. The man who denied you the softness you've always craved unless you'd earned it.
You do hate him.
But yes, you hate his absence more.
"There is another matter," he says, not giving you time to answer his question.
Perhaps because he did not care to hear the answer, or perhaps because he could not bear it.
"I am told you'd been quite disruptive while I was away," Ormund says. "That you'd stolen and spoken with a sharp tongue. All things I could forgive, considering the worst of your misdeeds."
Your brows furrow. "And what was the worst?"
"I have told you a hundred times to stay away from the stables," he explains. "So, imagine how unexpected it was to hear that you'd been spending far too much time with a boy who works in the very same stables I've warned you against."
Your stomach twists at the sharp tone of his voice. A stark contrast to the way he'd spoken to you only moments ago. "He does magic tricks," you say. "We were not being inappropriate."
"Magic," he spits. "Is that what you'd sell your virtue for? Your maidenhood? Worth nothing but a few tricks?"
"What? No! I—!"
"It does not matter if you truly did it," Ormund interrupts. "All that matters is the way it might seem to the passing eye. A whisper in one ear turns to truth in the mouth of another."
"But I didn't do anything! There was another, in the stables," you argue. "An old woman mucking out the stalls. Ask her, she can attest we were simply brushing the mares and—!"
"He did not touch you?"
"No, my lord. On the seven above, I swear it."
You see something rigid relax in him as you say the words aloud. His posture softens, his hands unfurl. Ormund wets his lips and says, "There is still the matter of precedent. I told you not to do something, and you went ahead and did it anyway. On this much we can agree, yes?"
"Yes," you echo.
He nods thoughtfully, steps closer to his four poster bed, and says, "Come."
You do not know quite why, exactly, you feel your heart slow as he says it. The word is rehearsed and familiar and puts you at ease in all the places you've felt wound tight for weeks now. You stand in front of him and await further instruction, and Ormund does not hesitate to give it.
"Remove your dress."
That spark of excitement returns. You obey wordlessly, unlacing the fabric just enough to pull the silk over your shoulders. It falls down your body like water and pools at your feet.
And then, finally, he says, "Kneel."
You do.
Ormund does not sit on the edge of his bed for several moments. He simply exists in the space you've created, drinking up the power he holds over you. He's still fully clothed, wearing a black tunic and leather breaches, towering over your naked body that awaits his instruction.
When he does finally sit, he speaks a word you have not practiced before but it invokes something primal in you all the same.
"Crawl."
You do.
Ormund's chest heaves as you keep your eyes firmly on his, closing the space on all fours. And when you're close enough that you're right between his spread knees, you lay your cheek against the inside of his thigh.
He squeezes his eyes closed, whispering under his breath, so quiet you'd have missed the curse on the tip of his tongue had you not been paying attention.
His throat bobs as he swallows and exhales slowly. When his eyes find you again, there is something akin to wonder in them. "Over my knee."
You assume the practiced position and find yourself slick between your legs before he's even touched you. But you know he sees it, too, when he squeezes your flesh and spreads you open wide enough to feel to cool air touch your cunt.
"Ten," he says lowly. "Because I can see now that you were only acting out in response to my lack of thought for your isolation."
Ormund does not give a warning. He never does. He simply raises his hand and brings it down sharply against the swell of your cheek. The impact is painful and soothing all at the same time, and though your breathing stutters you feel your chest loosening.
You count each and every one in perfect succession, skin growing raised and warm to the touch. You cannot be sure if his hand comes down harder each time or if perhaps you've just grown more and more sensitive.
By the sixth strike, you're throbbing. Your hips move of their own accord, desperate for something to be wedged between them. Your toes curl and your feet cross at the ankles, thighs squeezed together as you try to abate the need.
By the eighth strike, you can feel Ormund's cock pressing against your belly, hard as stone. You cannot bear to look at him, not like this. Because you think you might lose all sense of self if you do, might kneel and beg for him to touch you. To violate you.
"Nine," you hiss, fingers curling in his sheets. You can feel everything, everywhere, all at once. Not just his hand and the way he hits you but his other, pressed firmly to the small of your back to keep you in place. You can feel the leather beneath you and his breath as it fans across your spine. You can feel the cool air that drifts in through the open window pane and the warm lick of the fire across the room.
You can feel your blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the holiness in your body.
"One more," Ormund says. "Breathe, girl."
You obey, sucking in a slow breath of air and letting it fill your belly.
He strikes you on the exhale, and this time his hand stays against your tingling skin.
"Ten," you whimper. It feels as though your bones melt in his hold. The tension in your muscles dissipates, fading to nothing.
Just one touch would be enough. The pressure has become a mountain inside of you and it's on the verge of collapse.
"Are you…enjoying this?"
You cannot lie. Not to him. "Yes," you answer breathlessly.
He hums, a sound at the back of his throat that you're not sure is because he's pleased with you or because he's appalled. You half expect him to strike your backside again.
He does not.
Instead, his hands drift slowly down the back of your thighs. And as his thumbs move, they slide through your slick and your spine arches back of its own volition.
"Oh—" You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the moan that threatens. But it feels so good, better than anything else.
He lifts one hand, and you expect it to hurt when he touches you again. Ormund instead curls his fingers inwards, spreads your knees, and strokes his knuckles through your syrupy folds.
This time there is no chance at holding back your sound of pleasure. It rips through you, deep and heady, goosebumps spreading across your skin.
"So sensitive," he muses, more to himself than words spoken to you. "You've always been such a sensitive girl."
You press yourself backwards, chasing the sensation of his hand. He gently strokes you again, soft enough you'd convince yourself it's a touch of love if you believed he were capable of such a thing.
His knuckles graze over your clit and what was once warmth in your belly now spreads like wildfire beneath your skin.
"Please," you whimper. "More, please. I'll be good, I'll be—I'll be so good, I promise."
"Of course you will be," he says. "You're my perfect girl."
The word clangs around in your emptied mind. Perfect.
Perfect, perfect, perfect—
Ormund smooths his hand over your cunt, the pressure and roughness of his touch dizzying. He then presses his thumb directly to your clit and you feel all the blood in your body rush to your center. "Do you know what you're asking of me?"
"Yes," you answer truthfully. "I want it to be you. I need it to be. No one else…" You swallow.
"Speak, sweetling," he encourages.
"No one else makes me feel like this," you admit, turning your head to look up at him.
And what you see is catastrophic to your aching heart. Because you've known Ormund all your life, but you've never seen him look like that.
Despaired, hopeless, a slave to the thoughts that plague him. There is such longing in his eyes that it makes your stomach flip. But beneath it all there is understanding—like he relates far too well to your words to ever deny them.
"I could ask for your hand," he mutters. "Though your mother will likely deny me for my allegiance to my cousin and my house."
"So take me." The words come unbidden, a treason in their own right. "Steal me away. Hold me captive, a prisoner of a war not yet waged."
Something dark and searing flares behind his eyes when you speak.
"I am yours," you admit, and you think it may just be the truest thing you have ever said. "The way I have always been."
Ormund growls low, a frustrated sound at the bottom of his chest. He leans forward and presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades. "You are, aren't you."
Not a question.
He sighs, breathing in the scent of your skin deep into his lungs to soothe himself.
You are unsure of what comes next, once the truth of your feelings for him has been laid out in the open.
It feels raw. Like your chest has been cut and your ribcage cracked so he might see your very insides.
What happens next is a kiss upon your shoulder.
Gentle. Devoted. Faithful.
There is a deep crease between his brows, and you can feel evidence of hesitation in his hands.
"You are troubled," you observe aloud. "Is it because of me?"
He winces as if you'd struck him. As if the words were far more painful than anything he's ever done to you. Ormund's jaw feathers, and he breathes in deeply before saying, "Of course not. You have never…"
He shakes his head, swallows, and tries again.
"Understand this; my feelings for you do not come from a righteous place. I should feed you, guide you, protect you, and do nothing else. You should not be here now. I should not want this. Or—or you."
"But you…do?" It sounds mousy as you ask it, said with an unsure tongue.
"I do," he admits in a hoarse whisper.
There is pain in his eyes as he says it. As if this feeling has been sitting in the depths of him for some time, and only now does he allow himself to succumb to it.
You move. You are uncertain and cautious as you do, but you will strength into your limbs anyway. Climbing into his lap, straddling his hips, winding your hands around his shoulders and tugging gently at the hair at his nape. "You don't have to take," you say, so close now you're breathing in his air. "Not if I give."
His stare is heavy and dark. Full of more longing and lust than you have ever seen exist in a man before.
You close the distance. Ormund freezes, unmoving as you press your lips to his experimentally. He tastes of smoke and cedar, of steel and blood, of safety and familiarity.
He tastes of home.
When you pull back, his chest heaves and his hands curl into the sheets. The thought crosses your mind that he is angry with you—furious, even.
But Ormund does not shout or raise a hand to strike you.
He grabs you by the back of the neck and crushes his mouth to yours. Less experimental and less nervous than you were.
Ormund kisses you like he's starving.
His lips move against yours, soft and wanting. And when his tongue slips between them, he moans into your mouth as he tastes the inside of it.
It is a battle of a different kind. He bites and sucks and licks, and you try to meet his fervor. You are just as desperate, but Ormund is untamed. A feral dog let off its leash.
Your center throbs and you whimper, rolling your hips on top of him to abate the feeling. He is still fully dressed while you sit naked in his bruising grip, and you suddenly want nothing more than to feel his bare skin beneath your fingertips.
When you tug at the buttons of his tunic, Ormund's hands find yours to assist your clumsy movements. He is much faster than you are, and tugs the garment over his head the moment he is able.
There, along the left side of his abdomen, is a jagged wound.
You pause to press your fingers tenderly to the angry, red skin. His muscles are strong and hard beneath your touch. Though the stitches are removed now and the wound is mostly healed, he still winces at the pressure of your fingertips.
Without thinking, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the scarred skin.
Ormund melts beneath your affection. And then he brackets his arms around your waist and turns you both, laying you flat against the mattress. He kneels between your legs, seeming so large and intimidating from the new angle.
His hands find your face, feeling your skin. They move slowly over your bones, down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, your navel, your hips. As if he were trying to memorize this particular moment by sight and touch alone.
"I have thought of this more times than I could ever say," Ormund tells you. He settles low, hovering over your body, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat.
His lips follows the same path as his hands, peppering wet kisses over your skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake.
"Your taste, you scent, your sweetness—I have dreamt of it," he continues. His tongue circles your navel once before moving further down. And when he kisses your pubic bone, Ormund pauses. Looks up at you through dark lashes, his stare soft but still no less intense. "Is this where you ache, sweetling?"
The words feel filthy and depraved and so delicious that you whine. "Yes," you tell him, squirming. "Will you kiss me there?"
A malevolent smirk forms on his pretty mouth. "More," he answers.
And with no warning at all, Ormund licks a stripe through your heat, tongue flat and soft and so very wet.
It sends you reeling. The sensation, the sensitivity—him. "Oh, gods, I—"
He does it again, this time licking back down as well. Ormund moans low and the vibration of the sound spreads through you mercilessly. Again, and again, and again, his tongue laves through your apex. You feel yourself clench, muscles pulled taut.
Your spine bends off the mattress and your hands come to his head, fingers twisting in his soft curls, pulling his mouth impossibly closer.
When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks gently, your vision blurs. Everything else in the world fades to nothing, every sensation muted apart from the pleasure his warm mouth brings.
Ormund is relentless. He doesn't stop, even when you're writhing and gasping for air. His face flushes and you can feel his stare on you even when you can no longer keep your eyes open.
It's far better than linens between your legs, far more intense. It doesn't take long before you become a trembling mess, legs shaking around his head, heels digging into his spine as you scramble to find some sort of purchase.
And then it happens—a searing pleasure, ripping through you mercilessly. Light flashes behind your eyes and your spine arches and your fingers tighten in his hair.
He licks and sucks you through it, making those sweet, rumbling groans all the while, as if this is more for his pleasure than yours.
The bliss is blinding and fizzles out slowly, leaving remnants of euphoria behind. Only then does he settle, tongue slowing as it slides through your wet heat with less pressure now.
When he finally pulls his mouth away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are glossy with your arousal. "Better," Ormund whispers. "Far better than I ever could have dreamed."
You can hardly react to his praise, too lost in the feeling he'd given you. "I did not know it could be like that," you admit, breathless. "That it could be so…"
"Perfect," he finishes for you. And you think, yes. He is perfect.
Maybe not in everything, but for you.
Ormund crawls over you until you are face to face once more. He is heavy on top of you, muscles thick and smothering in the best way. His length presses against your hip, so hard now you can feel the pulse of it.
He kisses your mouth but this time it's slower. Softer. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating.
His hands cradle your face far gentler than another ever has. It is dizzying, the way he can bring such pain and still grant such ease.
You wriggle your arm beneath his abdomen, reaching for the metal of his belt buckle.
Ormund groans, but you feel the way his lips turn up just slightly against yours. "Greedy girl," he says, pulling away to nuzzle your cheek with the tip of his nose. "I have warned you against overindulgence endlessly."
He speaks true, but you have never listened to his warnings. Have always bent the rules until they break, have retained a sharp tongue and a love for all that might destroy you.
Including him, you suppose.
"Will you deny me, then?"
"No." Ormund shakes his head. "Never in all my life."
It eases something in you to hear the response. To know this is a sin you share, a mirrored reflection of one another.
He leans backwards, just enough to unbuckle his breeches and remove them. His cock is larger than you'd anticipated. Thick and veiny and flushed at the tip, hanging heavy between his legs and decorated with a thatch of dark, coarse hair at the base.
Ormund kneels in front of you, staring hard, watching you take all of him in for the first time.
He's beautiful, you think. Strong and powerful and profound. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, your brain going fuzzy again, carnal impulses beginning to take hold.
"I can be gentle," he says. "If that is what you need."
But it's not gentle you want. You want him—with all his sharpness, with all his anger. The totality of it; his heart, his soul, his body. If it hurts, you think it is meant to. "What I need," you whisper, "is you."
He watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face, trying to find hesitance that doesn't exist. And then he nods, leans forward to kiss your temple, and says, "You will tell me if it becomes too much."
You swear to him that you will.
Ormund takes his cock in his hand and slides the head of it through your center, coating his length in your wetness. Each stroke of him over your clit has you sighing, hips canting towards the sensation.
He lines himself up at your entrance, and your attention is so focused on his movements between your legs that it startles you when he uses the other to grab your face.
Ormund's fingers curl tightly around your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to look at him. "Eyes here," he says, voice firm.
And then, gently, he begins to push in.
The stretch of him burns, but it is not terrible. It simply aches, and you whimper a distorted version of his name but he does not stop. He keeps going until he's fully seated inside of you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly.
All the while, he keeps his big hand around your jaw, squeezing so tightly it momentarily distracts from the throbbing of your cunt.
Ormund touches his forehead to yours, breathing in your air. He says, "You are so fucking perfect."
And it makes you moan.
He starts to move, slowly at first. Pulling out of you tenderly just to slide right back in. A few strokes, encouraging your endurance. Sweet and soft and loving.
"Feels so—so full," you say, whimpers falling from your lips.
Ormund pulls out again, nearly all the way this time. He still forces you to look at him, and you can see the desperation enter his eyes mere moments before he slams his cock in deep.
There is nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.
Your vision goes blurry and the air vanishes from your lungs as if it'd never existed there in the first place. The force of it aches so deliciously you feel pressure begin to form behind your eyes. "Oh god—!"
He does it again, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into you. "My perfect girl," he mutters against your lips. "Does it hurt?"
"Yes." Your hands find his shoulders, fingernails digging into the thick muscle .
"Do you wish for me to stop?"
That familiar warmth spreads someplace deeper than before. Not just your belly but in your womb. "No, please don't—don't stop."
Ormund turns your head just enough to press his own against the side of your cheek. He inhales the scent of your skin and a low growl reverberates in his chest.
Finally, blessedly, he picks up the pace. Hips grinding hard against yours, finding a rhythm that feels somehow both satisfying and violent. He breathes shallowly against your cheek, pressing kisses to your jaw that feel so tender in comparison to the way he fucks you.
And when he reaches between your bodies with his free hand to find you clit, you think you might die. It's too much, too sensitive. Your toes curl and your spine arches, pressing your breasts against his chest. The only word you seem to have held onto in your bliss is, "Please. Please, please—oh god, please."
"You beg so prettily," he says. "Almost like you were made for it. Made to kneel before me. Made to be mine."
The possessiveness in his tone alone has you teetering on the precipice of release. You'd given yourself freely to him, willingly—but Ormund still manages to take. Your innocence, your purity, your heart.
You're falling. Bliss blinds you, thighs trembling, nerve endings coiled and white-hot. His name falls from your mouth and Ormund kisses you hard to swallow up the sound.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "There you go, sweetling. Give it to me. My perfect girl."
He doesn't stop, even when tremors rock through your body. He keeps fucking his cock into you without remorse, fingers moving over your clit in tight circles, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher until you feel like you might burst with it.
The pace of his hips falters, and then he's groaning low against the curve of your neck and laying wet, open-mouthed kisses against your pulse. With his cock buried inside of you, he fills you with his release, painting your insides all sticky and white.
Ormund gives a couple of slow thrusts, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, before gently pulling out of you and rolling to his side.
It is not you who reaches for comfort first.
His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you across the mattress and into his warm embrace.
You nestle beneath his arm, head resting against his shoulder. He is so large and the heat of his skin is so comforting. Familiar in some ways, despite this being the first time you've ever been so close.
That same warmth that emanates from him seeps through your bones and touches your fast-beating heart. A delighted giggle escapes you, and you can feel Ormund's mouth turn up into a smile against your forehead.
He tilts your chin up so you're facing him. "What is it that you find so amusing?"
You shake your head. "Nothing, just...I am—I am happy."
His smile softens into something heavier, but no less pleased. You don't believe you've ever seen him look this way. So vulnerable. Benevolent, even.
Silence settles for some time. And you would be content to stay here, skin tingling in the aftermath of bliss, safe in his arms. But there is something weighing on him, and you can feel it in the stiffness of his hands that stroke gently over your hip.
When you can stand his distance no longer, you ask, "Is there something wrong?"
He doesn't answer right away, which frays the edges of your comfort. But then he says delicately, "I have something for you. A gift."
"A gift?" You prop yourself up on an elbow. "From the Citadel?"
"No," Ormund answers. "I'd had it made for you some time before my journey. But I—it is not a…kindness, exactly. More a token of my own grotesque worship of you."
Your brows furrow in confusion. "What is it?"
Ormund untangles himself from the sheets, unkempt and messy now below you. He crosses the chamber to his wardrobe and pulls open a drawer.
It is hard to see from so far away, but you watch as he takes something hesitantly in his hand before returning to the bedside.
"I…I sometimes believe that I have been shackled to you by the gods themselves," he begins. "Fated to bend my own morals in response to my longing for you. I am but a wolf coiled around a lamb and there will never be anything else, not for me."
You don't understand. It makes a million questions form in your mind, none easily answered.
Ormund swallows thickly. "I am a slave to your affection," he says. It makes your chest pull tight. "I do not deserve your softness but I will never turn it away so long as you continue to give it."
He extends his hand in front of you, opening his palm to display the prettiest necklace you've ever seen. Made of glittering emerald stones and a silken black ribbon.
You reach out to touch it on instinct, and Ormund lets you take it from him. But as you do, witnessing the lack of length, realization dawns on you. "This heralds a collar," you say.
Ormund nods slowly. "I only wished for you to be…possessed by me, the way I have been possessed by you."
A response does not come easily.
There is a part of you that knows this is not the way of things. A man should love his lady. Should be kind and respectful. He should certainly not place a collar around her neck as if she is owned property or a family pet.
But there is…something else, too. A part of you where desire sparks at the thought of being so wholly his, of surrendering to whatever fate may befall you so long as it is done by his own hand. There is peace in it. And certainty.
"I'd told myself to get rid of it a thousand times, but there has always been a hope within me that perhaps one day you might return my wretched affections," he says. "It is yours. But if you are to wear it, you must do so willingly."
The decision feels heavy. Weighted.
But you do not need long to decide.
You hand the necklace back to Ormund, who takes it hesitantly from your grasp.
And then you turn, facing away from him but looking over your shoulder to ask, "Will you tie it for me?"
He smiles, and there is something deeply fragile in it. Almost boyish, as if this is the first time in all his life he has ever felt truly loved by another.
Ormund kisses the back of your neck and sets the ribbon in place around your throat.
