“mine, in every version of the story.” i.e. DATING LOKI HEADCANONS
summary: those moments and thoughts and feelings that you experience when you are partner to the god of mischief and cruel romance himself.
pairing: loki (the sandman) x gn!reader
warnings: mentions of smut, bloodplay, Loki being an ass.
word count: 2.4k
a/n: this took way to long because I'm a massive over thinker and procrastinator if you couldn't tell, but more is coming I've just been so busy and am trying to get back on that grind my darlings, but here he is. :)
First and foremost, you aren’t dating him- not necessarily, he doesn’t date, not in the way others would understand it. He coils. He takes.. but he’ll call it love. And the worst part? For him it actually is. Whether you are betrothed or already bound together, mortal or endless alike, no vow knows the bounds of your partnership, for one thing he, you and every being knows?
You are his undoing, so much as he is your ruin.
The chaos is shared and curated. You'll wake within a new realm, in depths of snow or surrounded on a bed of cowslips, alone and curious as Loki watches from a distance, and he'll never admit to you as to why- though whispers on the wind say it reminds him of when you once met, unknowing and unexpected. He crafts illusions the way poets write stanzas, soft, strange things. A kiss that tastes of something long forgotten from your childhood, and a version of himself that lets you go, just so you'll crawl back.
Loki doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants you haunted by him. Touched in places no one else can name. Softened. Unmoored and made beautifully unhinged. He’ll let you think he’s being kind— a warm bath, a moonlit picnic, a whispered “I’m here” after days of silence—but look again.
You’re not in your bed. You’re not in your world. You’re not alone.
The pet names are layered and sometimes somewhat ridiculous, ever changing at that; “My desecration”, “Love”, “Darling heretic”.. "Serpent hearted dove" was one once, and he's never let it go, chuckling at every chance he gets. The list may go on, but you don’t just get a ‘baby’, you only get riddles in the shapes of names.
He hates boredom. So if you seem too... settled? He’ll stir something up. Seduce someone in front of you, though it means nothing. Whisper in your ear that he could leave, just to see how you’ll react.
But gods help the one who hurts you. He’ll dismember them with a grin, his hands stained and his voice sugar-slick:
“You belong to me. Not them, as I do you.”
He is stunningly vain- but wants your worship to be secret. Whispered and sacred. He knows what he looks like in the moonlight, the way the voice reaches every core of your being as he drops it an octave. But what wounds him—deeply, quietly, behind the illusions—is when you don’t look. When your gaze lands elsewhere.
When your fingers trail over someone else’s wrist for too long.
He doesn't show it. Not directly, but he goes cold. Still. A little distant.
Until finally—
One night, he finds you in the bath, the water rippling deep in the candlelight, your face drowsy and content at the warmth and sweet scent of lavender. You feel his presence before you see him, kneeling beside the tub, shirt unbuttoned exposing his chest and sleeves rolled, and that familiar glinting in his eye. You tilt your head taking him in, “What is it?”
He leans in close, fingertips pressing the white tile, eyes glistening but voice controlled. “You used to look at me like I’d hung the stars, now you barely look at me when I walk in the room. Have I become.. ordinary?” The question punches at your chest, and you blink. Once, twice. You rise slightly, water dripping from your arms as you cup his face.
“No,” you whisper. “You’re the curse in every myth. The echo in every temple. You are never ordinary.” His throat bobs and his lashes lower. You press your lips to his cheek, then down to his jaw. “I don’t always say it,” you murmur. “But I watch you like I’m starving. Even when you’re not looking.”
He lets out a breath, like that was what he’d been waiting for.
Then his voice—quiet, raw:
“Say it again.”
So you do. Again. And again. And again. And that night, he worships you like the one thing in the universe he cannot outshine.
Loki lies to you, flippantly, as he does. “To keep things interesting.” Hm. To test your patience, perhaps make you jealous- and oh how it works, he likes that venom you carry, drinks it in even, so much so he can’t get enough of it. But just as frequently as he lies, when he tells the truth? It’s tender, almost painful. “I love you, that’s the problem.”
DARKER TIDES — POWER, POSSESSION, & A GOD’S WRATH
He loves your mind, and makes it known obsessively. That sharpness you have that rivals his wit, the defiance at his advances, the teasing of that chase that he is constantly keeping up with, and that defiant belief of yours that he can be better. Loki studies it, watches you attentively like you’re the only one in the world. He hates it some of the time, how you could frustrate him and entice him so simply, he needs it.
Loki doesn’t get vocally jealous, he gets violent. Quietly. Strategically. That admirer that flirted with you down the hall? Disappeared. The person who lingered their hand on yours a little too long when opening a door? Packed their bags and moved halfway toward the equator. Now he isn’t always that dramatic, but it’s rare he isn’t, but one thing is for sure, you’re guaranteed not to be seeing them again.
Some may question his advances, the looks from the other Gods and the Endless often frown upon him however most of it, stems from fear. His worst fear may be boredom, but that deeper fear? Losing you. Be it someone else takes you away or for nothing at all, peace or a mortal life. “Don’t you dare become ordinary.” He hisses once when you mentioned something of still, a new house maybe it was. It wasn’t that Loki meant it horribly, well maybe a little insulted, but he wants nothing but the best. You both make peace in the chaos, not settle for it.
Okay, now onto the bedroom… or wherever you two end up.
He has a worship kink. But this isn’t your average “good boy” energy no. He wants you to curse his name as you fall apart around him, to praise him like it’s blasphemy.
“Say it,” He snarls fucking up into you, “Tell me what I’am to you.” You’re straddled around him, legs hugging tightly around his back as your nails dig in at his shoulders, your head lazily falling against his collarbone. And oh you do, again. And again, until your legs are shaking and your brain is but air.
Much akin to worship, as much as he revels his name on your lips its nothing if he didn’t return the favour. The things he can do, spend hours beneath you, kissing, biting, licking. A man starved has nothing on the way he licks into you, or pushes so deep the flip in your stomach aches, your sounds and moans are the only things he wants to hear for eternity. Often trapping the delicacy in some capsule, to keep.
Biting everywhere. On your thighs— on your neck. At your ankles and your shoulder, anywhere he can to put his own claim. His teeth are always too sharp, and you’re certain he does it on purpose because there are always marks and oh good, he wants you to feel it days later.
Illusions in bed. He’ll change his shape mid-thrust—tongue shifting, his eyes are glowing and his voice now echoes around you, ringing in your ears. You never quite know who you’re touching, but you always know it’s him, no matter the form. Sometimes he shows you versions of yourself: you begging, breaking, laughing manically. He whispers to you in a taunt, “That’s who I’ll make you.” He lives to watch you break, to come apart just for him, and he preaches more than a promise.
Now Loki knows no bounds, except your own. Despite the urge and push to your edge every time, one thing he respects if not himself— its you. You are his love, his own ruin, hurting you, if it isn’t punishing you, is out of the question. After all there is a reason so many people seem to go missing if they come even close to doing the same. You are his exception, through the teasing and the stress he seems to bring to any situation, simply because he can, that is one thing he won’t stand for. So if something is a no, he may question with that shit-eating grin on his face, but he only cups your chin and kisses you afterward, with a simple “I know darling.”
He’s an exhibitionist, living to show you off, as well as himself of course. He’ll press you against stained-glass windows in temples that don’t know your name. He’ll ruin you in dreams where gods are watching, perhaps the Lord of the Dreaming himself and he knows it . He wants to be caught. “Let them see,” he roars against the shell of your ear. “Let them weep for what I get to have.”
When he’s jealous, the sex gets mean. Not cruel— but sharp. Intentional. He’ll pin your wrists, fucking you deep and slow, taunting:
“Did they touch you like this? No, they couldn’t. You’d still be screaming their name if they had ever dared.”
Blood, now this is obvious no matter who it is, maybe his teeth draw blood when he bites, or he alludes a claw long enough to stretch open your skin, sometimes it’s a silver dagger, sharp and sleek that glints in the light. He’ll drag it down your thighs and across your stomach, gently before breaking the skin just enough. The hot sting pours through your body as you tremble, and his mouth is already on you, tongue teasing the thin red line like a fever, suckling at the acrid substance like its liquid gold. And he never forgets to press a kiss as it heals, leaving the small scars across your body, and if you do the same? He wears each and every one like the honour it is.
Now the aftercare is soft and delirious, and possessive. You say you’re tired? He sighs and grumbles but snaps his fingers just as fast, and now the silver moon hangs half in the sky and it stills, the sky now a deep magenta.”There, now come. Rest on me.” He’ll lie beside you in silk sheets that weren’t there ten seconds ago, one hand tangled in your hair, and murmur things like:
“You’re the only one who’s ever seen me like this.”, “You’re mine now. I won’t let the world have you.” “Sleep. I’ll keep the nightmares.” And he does.
Some softer things I believe between you two, that only you’d ever know, because even the God of Mischief and deception has feelings.
Loki carves your name in the bark of a tree he made himself, twisted and giant with reeds for branches that sweep the floor with every windbreak, sigils sit guarding your name, he visits it often, sometimes with you, sometimes without. Your own shrine, for him.
He lets you see his real form once, and only once. Just for a moment. It hurts to look at, but he lets you anyway. And as it happens he threatens to never allow it to another again, but he has trust in you, whatever that is to him. He lets you hold him, take him in, as he does you, every moment. An intimate moment even he wouldn’t forget.
One day he gifts you a crown of illusions, stating that, “If the world will not worship you, then I will bend the world.” You and Loki are an equal, no matter your being, and that is something he has made clear, to you, to the Endless, to time itself.
He’ll kiss your scars like they’re scripture, making love to every one of them, tracing them with his fingers and his eyes light up every time he gets to touch them, staring intently, “Each one’s a secret. A story. A spell etched on your body. I’ve read them all.”
Now if anyone were to ever hurt you, in any sense, Loki will make up for it in penance. Blood appears on your hands in a flash, and you try to wash it off, scrubbing harshly as the door clicks behind you. He’d been gone for hours and he strolls in like nothing ever happened, but the blood on your hands mirrors his. You ask him what happened, quirking a brow and he just shrugs. “They hurt you, I hurt them worse.” He pauses and dons that wicked grin, the blood disappearing from the both of you as he kisses you, pulling back just enough.
“I saved their tongues though, in case you wanted to hear them beg.”
He sees everything. And he knows when something’s wrong. You’re smiling, but your hands tremble in your lap, or the smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes Loki is across the room, glaring lovingly and intentionally working down every wall, because just as he is a tease, he is as attentive.
“You smiled wrong,” he says without turning. “Who hurt you?” And when you finally tell him, softly, shakily, he doesn’t promise revenge, he just stands. And smiles.
He will try, anything he can, say or conjure what he can to make you happy. You say you wish things were simpler, that you could walk hand-in-hand through a market without the world shuddering, that maybe, just once, you could be loved without consequence.
The next day, you wake up in a dream. It's a soft one, and the two of you are in a little cottage by a lake that doesn’t exist. He’s cooking eggs (more like burning them, hilariously), wearing nothing but a linen shirt, and you come up behind him kissing his shoulder. He doesn’t say it’s a dream. Instead, he lets you believe, even if just for a little while, as he closes his eyes backing into your touch.
“You said you wanted peace,” he says, eyes unsure. “I tried.” Even if he doesn’t know what that is, sometimes he wishes it too.
But one thing despite it all? He is devoted, no matter the disguise. He never really says I love you, not the normal way or the mortal way he’d say. But he leaves marks where no one can see, inscribing runes of protection on the soles of your shoes, putting charms in your coat pocket—things you don’t find until the day you need them most.
You may confront him once, frustrated, questioning why. And he just tilts his head, that expression unreadable.
“You are not my thing,” he says. “You are my weakness. That’s worse.”
Then he kisses you so gently you forget what you were angry about.
Loki doesn’t love like a man, for he is not that, but he loves like a God, and you? The only thing a God has to live for.
