synopsis: When you're the only Avenger who treats Loki like a friend (with a side of shameless flirting), you don't expect much in return, especially not feelings. But when you start getting closer to the good captain, Loki's feelings manifest themselves in mischief, of course.
The Tower was uncharacteristically quiet when you slipped into the lounge with two mugs of coffee. One plain for yourself and one laced with just enough cinnamon to please a particular god who would swear he didn’t have preferences. Loki lounged on the sofa like an indolent cat, leafing through a thick volume of Midgardian mythology (half-scoffing, half-cackling at every other paragraph.)
You set his mug beside him. “Morning, Your Highness of Questionable Reading Material.”
He didn’t glance up. “You persist in these unnecessary offerings. I do not need Midgardian stimulants.”
“And yet your hand is already reaching for the cup.”
His long fingers hesitated, then casually closed around the handle. Slow enough to imply disinterest, quick enough to betray the opposite. A tiny grin tugged at the corner of your mouth. You’d made it your personal mission to treat Loki exactly like any other teammate. A little teasing, a dash of flirting, but never the fear or reverence everyone else showed him. And it was paying off; he rarely tried to hex you these days.
Rarely.
Today, though, he only sipped once before muttering, “If Thor discovers I indulge in mortal comforts, he will never cease braying.”
“Oh, please,” you drawled, sinking into the armchair opposite him. “Your image is safe with me. Though, if you want to upgrade from coffee, I have a killer recipe for hot cocoa—”
“Enough.” His gaze flickered to you, emerald eyes unreadable. “Your incessant hospitality will not soften me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Though the thought of softening you is intriguing.”
The book snapped shut. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you haven’t told me to stop.” You winked. A faint, almost imperceptible flush bloomed along his cheekbones before he vanished behind another sip.
A WEEK LATER
Steve Rogers laughed as you regaled him with a story about your first disastrous attempt at piloting the Quinjet. You tossed a casual arm over his broad shoulder, nearly knocking his shield off the back of the sofa. Friendly, harmless, the same brand of camaraderie you’d shown Loki a hundred times.
But, from the hallway’s shadow, the god of mischief watched. He did not like the tight clench in his gut, nor the ping of something that felt embarrassingly like hurt.
The next morning, Steve’s alarm clock rang at four a.m. and immediately sprouted legs, sprinting laps around his bedroom in a screeching circle. At breakfast, his protein shake turned into bright-green lime gelatin mid swallow. During training, every punching bag he struck let out a high-pitched giggle.
You caught him in the corridor afterwards. “Cap, why do you look like you’ve fought a circus?”
“I think I am fighting a circus,” he muttered. “A very magical circus.”
Across the room Loki strolled by, inspecting his nails, looking all but utterly innocent.
Later in the day, you were perched on the edge of the Mission Room table while Nat patched code into the computers. “Seriously, why is Loki tormenting Steve all of a sudden? I thought we were past the ‘random harassment’ phase.”
She didn’t look up. “You’re cute when you’re clueless.”
“…Thanks?”
“Jealousy, genius.” She saved the file with a final keystroke and faced you. “Loki has a crush. You’re the object of his affection. Steve is collateral damage.”
You opened your mouth; nothing came out except a weak, “Loki? Crush? On—on me?”
Natasha arched an eyebrow. “Try using those brilliant deduction skills on yourself for once. Talk to him before he turns Steve’s shampoo into glow-in-the-dark glitter.”
Starlight flooded the glass dome as you approached Loki that evening. He stood alone, arms folded, gazing at New York’s nightscape as though he’d rather be anywhere else. “Got a minute?”
“I always have minutes. Whether I choose to waste them is another matter.”
You came to his side. “Why are you tormenting Steve?”
Loki gave a theatrical sigh. “I was bored.”
“Try Sudoku next time.” You leaned on the railing. “Nat thinks you’re jealous.”
“Romanoff needs a new hobby.”
“So you’re not jealous?”
Loki rolled his eyes. “Please. I have no reason to covet the company of that star-spangled fossil.”
You smirked, poking the bear. “Good, because I was thinking of asking him out.”
The reaction was instantaneous. A crackle of green energy flickered at his fingertips before the city lights behind him dimmed as if intimidated. “Absolutely not.”
You tilted your head, enjoying the rare crack in his composure. “Why not? Steve’s kind, handsome, heroic—”
“He is insufferably noble and far too occupied with his moral compass to keep you entertained.”
“Hmm. So who would be worthy?”
“Someone clever.” Loki's voice softened despite himself. “Someone who sees past façades and understands the burden of a façade of his own.”
You swallowed a grin. “Someone wearing green, maybe?”
He glared. “If you must be obtuse.”
Your hand found his. “Then I’ll date the clever one in green.”
His eyes darted to where your fingers meshed. “I do not ‘date.’”
“Fine. Court? Consort? Raid the Nine Realms with? Pick your vocabulary.”
A reluctant smile tugged his lips. “You are intolerable.”
“And yet you tolerate me.”
After a heartbeat, he interlaced his fingers with yours properly, squeezing just once. “Inform Rogers he is safe. For now.”
“I will.” You leaned closer, dropping your voice to a murmur. “But you still owe him a few normal days of shampoo.”
“Ugh. Very well.” He turned away, but not before you saw the smile on his face. “Now cease your blathering and show me this ‘hot cocoa’ I have heard rumors of. I reserve the right to despise it.”
You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Deal. But if you love it, I will never let you live it down.”
Request: @groovy-lady Hello! May I please request an OG Avengers Tower AU in which Loki (who lives in Stark Tower as well) reveals that he used to have a wife, but she had gone missing and has been presumed to be dead for many years but even he is surprised to find that his wife had been captured by a magic user and forced to live on Midgard without any way of returning to Asgard?
A/N: this was sent back in April… i apologize for the long wait.
Summary: you knew this place held someone -- someone-- familiar. you just needed to know what or who it was after years of torture. [wc 1K] [ao3]
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, reunion
No one in the Tower expects Loki to talk about his past. Not really. He’s… integrated, in his own way—still sharp-edged, still unpredictable—but quieter than he used to be. Less interested in grand gestures, more inclined to linger in shadows and watch.
So when he speaks up one night—unprompted—it catches everyone off guard.
“I was married once.”
Silence falls over the common room. He doesn't look up when he reveals it.
Tony Stark lowers his glass slowly. “Well. That’s new.”
Natasha Romanoff tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re serious.”
Loki doesn’t look at any of them. His gaze is fixed somewhere distant—somewhere far beyond Midgard. “I am always serious,” he replies quietly. That’s how they know it matters. He doesn’t give them everything. Just fragments. “She… was not Asgardian by birth,” he says, voice measured. “But she belonged there more than most.”
There’s something almost fond in the way he says it. Soft. Gone as quickly as it appeared. “She vanished.” A pause. “Magic,” he adds. “Powerful enough that even I could not trace it.”
“Dead?” Steve asks gently.
Loki’s jaw tightens. “…presumed.” The word sits heavy. Like something he never fully accepted. He doesn't met anyone's eyes when he speaks it.
After that, the subject is dropped. But things shift. Subtle. Loki becomes… distracted. More than usual. He disappears for longer stretches, returns with tension coiled tight in his shoulders, magic flickering restlessly at his fingertips.
Like something is pulling at him.
—
And then one afternoon, you prance into the Stark Tower.
It’s not dramatic. No thunder. No cosmic fanfare. Just the quiet hum of the lobby, polished floors, and you—standing there like you don’t quite belong. Because you don’t. Not really. Not here. Not anywhere.
You’ve spent years like this. Moving. Hiding. Living a life that never quite fit, like you were wearing someone else’s skin. You learned quickly not to talk about it—the strange dreams, the flashes of gold and green, the feeling of loss that never made sense.
The man who kept you—who controlled you—made sure of that No magic. No reaching out. No going back. Until he died. And whatever he bound you with… broke.
That’s how you end up here. Because something in you said this place mattered. That someone here mattered.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.
You hesitate. “I… I think I’m supposed to be here.”
It sounds ridiculous the second it leaves your mouth. But before they can respond, the air shifts. Upstairs, Loki freezes mid-step. His breath catches. There’s a pull— a sharp, naggingly tugging pull. Familiar. Impossible.
“No,” he whispers. And then he’s gone before anyone could stop him.
You don’t even have time to react before he appears. Not walking. Not arriving. Just—there. Magic curling faintly around him, eyes wide in a way no one in the Tower has ever seen before.
For a moment, Neither of you move.
You don’t recognize him. Not fully. There’s something there—something that aches—but it’s buried under years of confusion, of being told what you are and aren’t, of being disconnected from something you couldn’t name.
But him? He knows. Immediately. Completely.
“…no,” Loki breathes again, softer this time. Like if he says it too loud, you’ll disappear.
Your heart starts racing. Because the way he’s looking at you— Like you’re something fragile. Something lost. Something he’s already grieved.
“Do I… know you?” you ask, uncertain. It nearly breaks him. You see it. The crack in his composure. The way his shoulders tense like he’s been struck.
“…you should,” he says quietly. Not accusing. Just… honest.
You take a small step forward. Something in your chest pulls tight. Painfully familiar. “I feel like I do.” Your voice softens without meaning to. “But I can’t—”
“Your name,” he interrupts gently. Not demanding. Asking.
You tell him.
The reaction is immediate. His eyes close briefly, like the sound of it is both a relief and a wound. “…I have spoken that name,” he says, voice rougher now, “into silence for years.”
The world tilts. Something in you shifts. A memory—not clear, not whole—but there. A voice. His voice. Softer than this. Closer.
“You…” your breath catches. “You’re in my dreams.”
His eyes snap open. “They were not dreams,” he says. A step closer. Careful. Like approaching something sacred. “You were taken,” he continues, each word controlled, deliberate. “Bound. Hidden from me. Taken in the middle of the night from our bed chambers.”
Your chest tightens. Because that— that right there feels so right.
“I couldn’t find you,” he adds, quieter now. “I tried.” Something in his voice makes your throat burn. “I tried everything.”
The fragments start coming faster. Gold halls. Laughter. A hand in yours. Magic that felt like home instead of a cage.
“You’re—” you shake your head, overwhelmed. “You’re important to me.”
A flicker of something almost like a broken laugh escapes him. “I should hope so.” A beat. “I was your husband.”
Silence.
It should feel impossible. Too much. Too fast. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because something deep inside you— Something that was never fully erased— recognizes him.
“…Loki,” you say slowly. Testing it.
He goes still. Like the sound of his name from you is something he hasn’t allowed himself to imagine. “Yes.”
You step closer. Close enough to see the fine details—the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he’s trying not to show. “I remember…” you whisper. Not everything. But enough. “Not all of it,” you add quickly. “But—pieces.”
That’s all it takes. Relief floods through him—sharp and overwhelming, barely contained. “I will take pieces,” he says quietly. “I will take anything you can give me.” Your hand lifts without thinking. Hesitates. Then rests lightly against his arm. The contact sends a jolt through both of you. Familiar. Electric. Real.
"I’m here now,” you say, voice small but certain.
For a moment, Loki just looks at you. Like he’s afraid this is another illusion. Another cruel trick. But then — carefully, almost reverently— He covers your hand with his. Warm. Solid.
“…you are,” he murmurs. And for the first time in years— The grief he’s carried so tightly begins to loosen.
Somewhere upstairs, the Avengers are definitely watching the security feed. Tony leans forward. “…so we’re not gonna talk about the whole long-lost wife appears in the lobby thing?”
Natasha smirks faintly. “Give them a minute.”
Down below— Loki doesn’t let go. Not this time. Not again.
It may not seem like it, but Loki is actually a big fan of cuddling. He won't tell you, so you'll just have to figure it out yourself, but when you do, he'll be elated.
He will NEVER admit it, but he secretly enjoys being the little spoon from time to time. He'll put up a big fuss about it, but deep down, he really loves the feeling of just being held and feeling protected for once.
He likes being the big spoon, too, of course. Holding you so close and feeling the gentle warmth of your skin brings him a sense of peace.
His body temperature runs cool so you'll never get overheated when curled up next to him.
Usually holds you from the back so he can bury his face into your hair. He'll wrap both of his arms around your waist, too, to hold you close to his chest like a freaking seat belt.
Tangles his legs with yours so it's harder for you to move away from him.
Oh, you want to get up? Absolutely not. You asked for this, and you're not gonna back out of it now.
Oh yeah, and if you ask him for cuddles, he's gonna groan and complain about it. Explaining to you exactly why he thinks the activity is ridiculous while simultaneously guiding you to the bed and pulling you down next to him.
"You can't be serious. You do understand that I have much more important things to attend to than just laze about with you- come here, you're too far away- than just laze about with you all day-"
Soft kisses to the nape of your neck and into your hair <3
If he's had a rough day, Loki just *might* actually ask you for cuddles. It likely won't be verbal, though. It might be in a simple gesture or some not-so subtle hints that he's craving your affection dropped into the middle of whatever conversation you're currently having.
Sometimes, your presence is so comforting to him that he falls asleep right then and there, and next thing you know, you've got a god softly snoring in your ear.
Swears he doesn't snore (he does).
But he is 10 times more likely to sleep better while you're sleeping next to him.
If you fall asleep in his arms, he might be tempted to prank you in some way but never goes through with it. Your peaceful expression and soft breaths strip him of his desire to cause trouble for you, and he often finds himself just laying in silence, admiring you.
If you were ever to bring up that he cuddles you to ANYONE, oh buddy, you're so cooked. You might as well just write out your obituary now cause you don't have much longer.
Marvel Characters & The Romantic Gestures That They Do
Multi Fandom: Romantic Gestures That They Do
Loki Laufeyson approach to romance is a mix of high-drama Asgardian tradition and deeply vulnerable, quiet moments.
Enchanted Memories: When you’re feeling down, Loki might subtly tap your temple to summon a vivid, glowing memory of a time you were truly happy, just to see your eyes light up again.
Conjuring Comfort: Loki will use his magic to "find" things you’ve lost or to manifest items you need—like a warm blanket or your favorite drink—right when you aren't looking.
Frost Giant Form: In rare moments of ultimate trust, Loki might reveal his Jötun form to you, allowing you to trace the blue patterns on his skin. He may even use his natural chill to keep you cool on hot nights.
The "Seatbelt" Hug: Loki's a surprisingly clingy cuddler. He often holds you from behind, wrapping both arms around your waist like a seatbelt and burying his face in your hair.
Hand Kisses: A habit from his royal upbringing in Asgard, Loki will frequently take your hand to press delicate kisses to your knuckles or palm, especially when you're nervous or in public.
Hair Playing: Loki deeply adores having his own hair played with or braided, but he’ll also spend hours idly twirling your strands around his fingers while you read together.
Setting the Stage: If you're coming home late, Loki will have your pajamas laid out, your water bottle filled, and the bed covers already pulled back.
Deep Listening: Loki listens intently when you ramble about "insignificant" things because it makes him feel trusted and lucky that you want to share your world with him.
Protective Instincts: While he might act nonchalant, Loki is fiercely protective. He often monitors your well-being and will gently steer you away from choices that might cause you stress or physical pain.
Lavish Gifting: Being a prince, Loki has a penchant for spoiling you with expensive, fancy dates or rare books and trinkets he finds across the realms.
The First "I Love You": Loki is often shy or intense about verbalizing his feelings. His first "I love you" might come during a quiet, private moment—like after a shared prank or a vulnerable conversation about his past.
Hi, can I request for Kinktober number 16. Loss of virginity and arranged marriage with MCU Loki. I would like that their wedding is first time they ever see each other. She heard horrible things about him bc gossip ofc and is terrified because his reputation. Maybe she had no say in this arrangement and such. Thank you in advance 🖤 ps. If anything of this makes you uncomfortable (maybe you don't want to write terrified women) you don't have to. You have free will to change anything. Have a good day ✨️👋
Kinktober Day 7: Arranged Marriage with Loki
The wedding feast of a prince should have been a night of splendor. Gold banners hung from the vaulted ceiling of the great hall, torches blazing against the polished marble, goblets raised in endless toasts. Yet you felt none of it. Every cup of mead that was lifted in your honor might as well have been a dirge, for your heart sat heavy in your chest.
You had never spoken to him, never even seen him until today. And now you were bound to him for the rest of your life. Loki, son of Odin. Loki the trickster. Loki the sly.
Your mother, when arranging the match with Queen Frigga, had spoken in cool, rational tones: A prince of Asgard, clever and cunning. Not the reckless sort to fling himself against an army as Thor would. He survives, child. He endures. Such a man is safer than a warrior drunk on glory.
But the whispers you had heard told a darker tale. Of illusions spun like webs to ensnare, of lies sweeter than poison. He was chaos incarnate, a silver tongue clothed in emerald and shadow.
So you stood beside him at the altar, hands bound in ceremonial silk, lips reciting vows you barely heard. His face, pale and sharp as a blade, betrayed nothing. His eyes flicked over you once, unreadable, then returned to the priest. He did not offer his arm when you descended the steps, nor did he spare a word for you when the court roared with celebration.
Through hours of feasting, music, and congratulations, he was a statue at your side, speaking only when duty demanded. You chewed bread that turned to dust in your mouth, drank wine that tasted of ash. The longer his silence endured, the more dread coiled in your stomach.
By the time the doors of your new chambers closed behind you, you were stiff as marble. The room was warm with firelight, the bed strewn with ivory silk and petals of pale flowers. You lingered by the hearth, fingers twisting in the folds of your gown, while Loki stood a few paces away, studying you with that same distant gaze.
At last, he spoke, his voice smooth as glass, edged with a glint of mockery.
“So this is the timid doe my mother has chosen to tether me to. I wonder if she fears I should starve for lack of meekness in my life.”
The words stung. Hours of biting your tongue split open in a rush of heat.
“You might have offered a kind word before insulting me,” you snapped, surprising yourself as much as him. “But then, perhaps courtesy is too great a burden for the god of mischief.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. You braced for cruelty, for sorcery, the clink of your bracelets turning into a hiss of serpents, the jewels in your hair twisting into biting fangs. You flinched at shadows on the wall, waiting for them to come alive.
Instead, he laughed. A low, rich laugh that startled you more than any threat. He pressed a hand to his mouth as if to smother it, but his eyes gleamed, bright and alive at last.
“There is fire in you, then,” he said, almost delighted. “I had begun to fear my mother had shackled me to silence made flesh. How swiftly you bare your claws when pricked.”
His mirth unsettled you, but it also loosened something tight in your chest. You stared at him, really stared, for the first time, and saw not a monster, but a man amused, intrigued. A man who, perhaps, had been as unwilling a participant in the silence as you.
“You find this all very entertaining, do you not?” you murmured.
“Would you prefer I glowered at you until morning?” he countered. “We are wed, little one. If we are to endure this union, it is better we do so without masks. Or at least, not the sort that bore me.”
You fought a smile, and failed. It flickered across your face, shy and quick, but he caught it. His expression shifted subtly, some sharpness softening as though your amusement had given him permission. He stepped closer, his presence both commanding and careful, like the closing of a door you had not noticed open behind you.
“Ah,” he said, voice low. “There it is. I wondered if you would grant me the truth of your smile before the night was done.”
You should have looked away, but the air between you hummed, charged with something that had not been there before. He reached for you, unhurried, fingers brushing the sleeve of your gown. The gentleness of the gesture unsettled you more than any barbed remark.
“Do you fear me still?” he asked softly.
Your breath caught. “Yes,” you whispered. “But not as much as I did.”
His lips curved. Not quite tender, not quite cruel, something in-between. “That will do.”
When he drew you into his arms, it was with surprising grace. His kiss was not tentative, nor brutal, but measured, like a man well-versed in power but patient in wielding it. His hands, though, told a different story; they trembled faintly where they held your waist, betraying an eagerness beneath the veneer of control.
And though you had entered the night fearing sorcery and serpents, what he gave you was neither spell nor sting. He was relentless, yes, in stripping away your composure, but he did not turn from your inexperience. He guided you, coaxed you, took without apology but with an attentiveness that made your body yield even as your mind reeled.
You gave him what you had never given another. And when the trembling left your limbs, when your voice returned, you found yourself laughing softly at some wry comment of his, your head against his chest.
Loki shifted, pressing a kiss to your temple as if the gesture had escaped him unbidden. His voice was velvet in the dim chamber.
“Take heart, wife. Whatever tales you have heard of me, I am far worse.”
But his hand lingered at your back, steady, anchoring you against him. And you thought, perhaps, that was not the whole truth.
The next gathering was a banquet in the golden hall, a celebration of some minor victory at the borders that mattered little to you but much to the generals who toasted it. You were seated beside Loki, as always, at a long table that glittered with crystal and gold, every noble eye fixed upon you.
It began as it always did: forced smiles, veiled questions, polite venom. Yet you sensed at once that Loki was different tonight. He sat with an ease, every movement measured, as though a performance had already begun.
When a lady of high rank leaned forward, her voice just loud enough to carry, and said, “One wonders if the prince has yet tired of his new bride’s silence. You always were fond of clever tongues, Loki,” you braced for his usual cutting retort.
But instead, he turned to you. Slowly. Intentionally. His hand came to rest over yours upon the table.
The hall went still.
“On the contrary,” he said, his voice smooth as silk but pitched for all to hear. “Her words are few because she chooses them well. A rare art in this place, do you not agree?”
The lady faltered, her painted smile trembling. A ripple of laughter, uneasy but real, passed down the table.
You were frozen, every muscle taut, for his thumb traced the back of your hand lightly, a gesture intimate enough to make your skin burn. He leaned closer, so that his shoulder brushed yours, and lifted his goblet with the other hand.
“To my wife,” he said. “May the court weary of speaking her name long before I weary of hearing it.”
They drank because they had no choice, though you saw their surprise, their eyes glittering with fresh gossip. You could feel your pulse at your throat, too loud, too fast, while Loki’s expression remained serene, almost bored, as though he had not just shaken the entire hall.
You dared to whisper, barely moving your lips, “You mean to make a spectacle of me.”
He tilted his head, his breath warm at your ear. “A spectacle of us, wife. Do not fear, it will be most convincing.”
The rest of the night passed in a haze. He poured your wine himself, leaned close when you spoke, laughed low at some comment of yours and touched your wrist as though you had whispered the cleverest jest in the realm. It was all theatre, you told yourself, every glance, every brush of his hand designed to ensnare the court in its own hunger for scandal.
And yet, when his fingers lingered a little too long against yours, when his laughter softened for a heartbeat as if only you could hear it, you wondered how much of it was play, and how much was not.
Later, when the banquet ended and you walked the golden corridors back to your chambers, you found your voice at last.
“You enjoy tormenting them,” you said, not quite able to keep the breathlessness from your tone.
His smile was sharp, but his eyes gleamed with something softer. “I enjoy watching them choke on their own envy. And,” he added, with a glance that made your stomach twist, “I find the role of devoted husband…not altogether disagreeable.”
You stopped in your tracks, uncertain whether to scoff or blush. He did not pause, only opened the door to your chambers and said over his shoulder,
“Do not worry, my dear. Tomorrow, they will speak of nothing else. We have given them their entertainment. Now, perhaps, we might find some of our own.”
The way his gaze lingered on you left no doubt as to what he meant.
Loki shed his cloak in a careless motion, emerald silk pooling on the floor. He looked at you in that measuring way of his, as if reading a book only he could decipher.
“You think me cruel,” he said at last, “to drag you into such theatre before all of Asgard.”
You swallowed hard. “It was cruel.”
His mouth curved. “Cruel but effective. They will not speak against you now, not openly. To wound you would be to wound me. And none of them dare that.”
He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, until you could see the faint shimmer of green in his dark hair from the fire. His fingers grazed your chin, tilting your face upward.
“But tell me,” he murmured, voice low, “was it only cruelty you felt tonight? Or something else?”
Your lips parted, but no words came. The weight of his gaze held you still, caught between fear and a treacherous thrill.
He chuckled softly. “Ah. Silence again. But this time not from terror.”
His mouth claimed yours before you could reply. There was nothing tentative in it, only demand, the sharp press of teeth against your lower lip, the taste of wine still clinging to his tongue. His hand slid to your waist, drawing you forward until the fabric of your gown rustled between you.
When he broke the kiss, his breath ghosted hot against your cheek. “I promised them devotion,” he said. “Shall I prove it to you as well?”
He did not wait for an answer. His hands moved with swift precision, tugging at the fastenings of your gown until the heavy fabric spilled from your shoulders. You gasped at the sudden cool air against your skin, your arms instinctively crossing over your chest.
Loki caught your wrists, binding them gently but firmly in his grasp. “Do not hide from me,” he said.
Slowly, he lowered your arms. His eyes swept over you, drinking in every line, every tremor, until you felt bared not only in body but in soul. And yet he did not laugh, did not sneer. He looked hungry.
He kissed you again, slower now, his hands trailing down to your hips, over the thin shift that was all that remained. His palms pressed firmly, urging you backward until the back of your knees struck the bed.
You fell onto the silken covers, breathless. Loki followed, bracing himself over you, his hair falling like a dark curtain around his face.
“This union was meant for politics,” he said against your throat, his lips tracing heat along your skin. “An arrangement. An inconvenience.” His teeth grazed your collarbone, making you shudder. “But tell me, little bride…do you still believe it nothing more than that?”
Your answer dissolved into a moan as his hands slid beneath your shift, fingers skilled and merciless. He teased you until your hips arched off the bed, until words became impossible.
He laughed softly, wickedly. “Ah. That was not the sound of a woman untouched by desire.”
And then the teasing ceased. The shift was gone, tossed aside like an afterthought. His own tunic and trousers followed, each layer discarded until there was nothing between you.
You saw him fully then, and though fear flickered, of his power, his control, it was drowned swiftly by want. He was lean and pale, carved with strength you had only guessed at beneath his finery. His eyes burned with intent.
He entered you in one slow, claiming thrust, his mouth capturing your cry before it could echo off the stone. He held you there, buried deep, until you were trembling. Then he moved, unhurried at first, savoring each drag, each helpless sound that escaped you.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his hand framing your face. “I would see you when I take you.”
You obeyed. His gaze locked with yours, and the world narrowed to the rhythm of his body driving into yours, the searing press of his skin against your own. Each stroke unraveled you further, until you clung to him with desperate fingers, nails biting into his shoulders.
He did not relent. He whispered against your lips, words of devotion laced with mockery, of ownership sweetened with endearments, until you shattered beneath him, voice breaking on his name.
Even then he did not stop. His pace grew sharper, until he spilled inside you with a groan, his head pressed to your throat, breath ragged and hot.
For a long moment neither of you moved, only the sound of your mingled breathing filling the chamber. Then, slowly, he lifted himself, eyes searching yours.
“You are no longer afraid,” he said quietly, almost in wonder.
You managed a trembling smile. “Perhaps I am. But not enough to flee.”
A low laugh rumbled in his chest. He kissed you once more, softer this time, lingering. “Good. Then we may yet make a marriage of this.”
He lay beside you, drawing the covers around your bodies, his arm firm around your waist. And though his reputation had haunted you, though you had dreaded nights like these, you drifted to sleep with the strange, unshakable thought that Loki’s arms might not be a cage at all, but a snare you were no longer certain you wished to escape.
Tags: nsfw, smut, overstimulation, begging, teasing, clit stimulation, power play, god x human
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A/N: A green theme going on in the last two days.
He... laughed... while he fucked you through your orgasm, the smug God of Mischief laughed at your face. "So cute when you come. Makes me never wanna stop fucking you." Was that meant to be endearing? Because to your pussy it almost sounded like a threat, and a treat. You couldn't decide.
You shook your head, words failing you while your hips met the frantic thrust of his, slick, depraved, uncontrollable. "I can't... already came... Loki, please."
Loki made a mocking tch sound with his lips and licked his fingers before dropping them down to your clit. You whimpered and whined at the cruel touch.
"Want me to stop, you need to come again if you want me to stop. I'm close as well. Don't be selfish, come on now. Darling." He speed up, his cock pounding into your cunt, his fingers rubbing your clit mercilessly. It was the best kind of frustration. You tethered on the edge of the abyss, and all you needed was Loki to push you over the edge.
"God, please... coming! I'm gonna... come!" Loki grinned at you before stealing a kiss and silencing your cries, his cock pushing deep into you, twitching as your pussy clenched around it. "Loki... God..."
"That's right, pretty little thing. I'm your God." He hushed, kissing away the tears falling down your face. To his credit he didn't move anymore, he held you gently, until you stopped shaking and were finally able to catch you breath. "I love you."
It wasn't something Loki said often, but he said it honestly enough that you never doubted his words.
Both hands slam onto the wooden headboard with such force that the entire bed frame seems to shake, and through half lidded eyes you watch your knuckles change colour against the wood. It isn’t the first time you’ve assaulted the bed frame this evening, and with the way Loki’s tongue is skillfully sliding through your cunt while you straddle his face, it won’t be the last.
His quiet hum of satisfaction floats up from between your thighs, and the soft vibrations are enough to have you flutter wildly around him. You chance a glimpse down at the god who’s been lying between your legs for the past half hour, moaning softly at the gloriously debauched sight that meets your eyes.
Loki is lying contentedly among the pile of pillows on your bed, ink black curls fanned out around him and a pretty pink blush staining his cheeks while he pleasures you. Elegant fingers are curled tightly around your thighs to hold you in place, gripping you so tightly that you anticipate a tiny line of bruises will form by the morning.
He’s a work of art, really.
“You are fucking gorgeous.” You can’t help but praise him, because there’s no sight on Earth comparable to Loki’s head between your legs. His answering deep hum sends a sharp ripple of pleasure twisting through your core, pulling a satisfied groan from your parted lips in its wake.
It’s impossible to tear your eyes from him as he lies between your legs. Each sinful swirl of his tongue and appreciative moan goes straight to your head, but then he moves his head just enough for you to catch the shine of your own arousal coating the tip of his nose and upper lip. That alone is almost enough to send you into orbit, that is, until Loki’s eyes lock with yours and he licks a long, slow line along the length of your cunt, pulling you as close to his mouth as he physically can.
It feels so good, so blindingly good, that for a second you’re unable to speak, unable to do anything but drown in the warm, wet feel of Loki’s tongue.
Your hands curl tighter around the headboard, but you don’t take your eyes of Loki for even a second. “Fucking…menace!” you cry out, only to feel him smile against your cunt as he returns to teasing and taunting. “Loki, I - fuck!” Whatever you were about to say is swiftly lost when he then dips that skilled tongue inside you.
All you can manage is a strangled whimper while he fucks you with his tongue. He’s expertly building you towards the edge, in the gloriously depraved way that only he can, and you send up an unending stream of thanks to the universe that this god loves you.
Because no one before him has ever been so attuned to your pleasure, or so eager to ceaselessly place it before their own.
“Nothing arouses me more than pleasuring you, dove.” He had said little over half an hour ago, silencing your objections as he had coaxed you over his face.
That beautiful face is now peering up at you with reverence, as though he’s ached to worship you all his life and tonight you’ve granted his every wish. His tongue laps at your cunt with something close to desperation and, not five minutes later, you feel his hands slide along your thighs to grip your hips, clamping you firmly against his face to give his undivided attention to your clit.
You clench wildly on top of him, beginning to rock your hips in an attempt to chase the release that’s building like a storm in your core. “Fuck, Loki, keep doing that! Please, please, please!” you plead with him.
The coil in your core is twisted tight and about to snap, promising a blinding release. It’s glittering before you like a new star - all you need is that wickedly talented tongue.
Curses and pleas continue to fall like spring rain from your lips, and Loki is the ever benevolent god. Before long, your climax crashes down around you with such force it rips the breath from your lungs. Tiny stars dance at the edges of your eyes and you grind wildly against your lover's face.
Loki watches you intently, his eyes sparkling as you come undone for him. You make sure to cry out his name as soon as you’re able, letting everyone in a ten mile radius know that every part of you belongs to him.
Your thighs are trembling on each side of Loki’s head, your heartbeat a pounding drum in your chest. You’re panting as you come down off your high, basking happily in the golden afterglow of your orgasm…
But then you realise that Loki’s tongue is still buried in your sensitive cunt.
“Mpmh, Loki…too much,” you whimper, trying to lift off his face.
Loki’s hands only curl tighter around your hips, refusing to grant even a seconds reprieve. You squirm on top of him, because the sensitivity really is too much, but a soft warmth in your wrists acts as a momentary distraction.
Glancing up, you see the deep green ribbons that are now tying your wrists to the headboard, effectively immobilising you and leaving no option but to remain where you are.
You feel Loki smirk between your thighs and the mischief that’s dancing in his eyes only confirms how absolutely fucked you are. “Please…no more…,” you plead weakly, but his sinful tongue remains deep in your cunt.
Within seconds, the beginnings of another orgasm are fizzling in your core and, through the heavy haze that’s settled over your shoulders, you vaguely remember Loki’s delicious promise from earlier in the evening, only now you can see it for what it was: a threat.
DON'T NEED CANDLES OR CAKE (JUST NEED YO' BODY TO MAKE)۶ৎ
[library]⋆.📎
⬩➤ pairing: loki laufeyson x reader
⬩➤ details: nsfw, profanity, loki x reader, established relationship, birthday sex, heavy teasing, filthy dirty talk, dominant reader, submissive loki, power exchange, riding, edging, begging, marking, rough sex, possessive sex, aftercare, loki being a massive brat, smug loki gets wrecked
⬩➤ wordcount: 4.0k
⬩➤ note: first actual smut fic, kinda nervous! i hope u somehow like it...?
⬩➤ synopsis:
It’s your birthday, and Loki is determined to spoil you rotten. From the moment you wake, the God of Mischief is endlessly talkative—showering you with luxurious gifts and increasingly filthy teasing whispers that leave you aching all day. With his silver tongue and wicked promises, he keeps daring you to shut him up… until you finally do exactly that by fucking him senseless.
You stirred slowly beneath the heavy silk sheets, the faint scent of leather, ozone, and something indefinently Loki lingering in the air like a spell that refused to fade. The first thing you noticed was the cool slide of fabric against your bare skin as you shifted—an exquisite green-and-gold robe draped artfully over the foot of the bed, clearly placed there for you to find.
A soft smile tugged at your lips. Of course he’d already been here.
You sat up, letting the sheet pool around your waist, and reached for the robe. The moment your fingers touched it, the silk seemed to warm and move on its own, gliding over your shoulders like a lover’s hands. It fit perfectly, of course. Everything Loki gave you always did.
On the nightstand sat a small velvet box. Inside was a delicate gold chain with an emerald pendant that pulsed gently against your skin the second you clasped it around your neck. A pleasant heat bloomed across your collarbones, spreading downward in lazy waves that made your thighs press together instinctively.
And then there was the note.
Written in that impossibly elegant, flowing script you’d recognize anywhere:
My darling little mortal,
Another year older. Another year more dangerously tempting. Today is yours. I am yours… or so I’ll let you believe. Be ready for me.
— L
You were still tracing the words with your fingertip when the air in the room shifted.
A swirl of emerald and gold shimmered near the window, coalescing into the tall, devastating figure of Loki Laufeyson. He leaned against the wall with that signature smirk, arms crossed, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that hugged every lean line of his body. His dark hair was swept back, a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead, and his eyes—those sharp, mischievous green eyes—raked over you like he was already undressing you with his mind.
“Happy birthday, my love,” he purred, voice velvet and sin.
Before you could even respond, he was across the room in two strides. His long fingers tilted your chin up and his mouth claimed yours in a deep, hungry kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He tasted like mischief and magic, like champagne and dark promises. When he finally pulled back, you were dizzy, lips tingling.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your mouth, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Another year more tempting. How dare you grow even more irresistible? It’s terribly unfair to the rest of the universe.”
You laughed softly, reaching up to tug at the lapels of his jacket. “You’re laying it on thick this morning.”
“Merely warming up,” he replied, eyes glittering. He leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I have plans for you today. All day. And I won’t be telling you a single detail until we’re in the thick of it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Cryptic as always.”
Loki’s grin widened, sharp and playful. He nipped at your earlobe, voice dropping into that low, filthy register you knew too well. “Let’s just say… there will be moments where I have you pressed against glass overlooking the city. Moments where my fingers are under your dress while no one around us has the faintest idea. And moments where you’ll be begging so prettily I might almost consider giving you what you want.”
Your breath hitched. The enchanted necklace grew warmer against your skin, almost pulsing in time with the growing heat between your legs.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, clearly delighted by your reaction. “But not yet. First, I’m taking you out. Properly. Like the goddess you deserve to feel like on your birthday.”
You tried to tug him back down for another kiss, but he caught your wrists gently, pressing them to the bed with a wicked smile.
“Ah-ah. Patience, darling. You’ll have your fun later. Though I must warn you…” His voice turned teasing, almost mocking in that way that made your stomach flip. “I’m feeling particularly talkative today. I do hope you’ll be able to handle all my commentary while I spoil you rotten.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, a spark of challenge flaring in your chest. It was your birthday, after all.
“We’ll see about that,” you murmured.
Loki’s grin turned positively feral.
“Oh, I do hope you try to shut me up, pet. I’m very curious to see how you’ll manage it.”
The morning blurred into a whirlwind of Loki’s particular brand of indulgence. By the time the sun was high, he had whisked you away to a hidden restaurant tucked between two unassuming buildings in Manhattan—an Asgardian sanctuary invisible to mortal eyes unless invited. The interior shimmered with floating golden lanterns and deep emerald drapery, the air scented with spiced wine and roasted meats.
You sat across from him at a private table near the window, overlooking the glittering illusion of a fjord that definitely wasn’t in New York. Loki looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“Try this,” he murmured, leaning across the table with a forkful of rich chocolate and berry dessert. Instead of handing it to you, he brought it to your lips himself, eyes locked on yours. “Open.”
You obeyed, and the moment the decadent flavor hit your tongue, his voice dropped to that sinful velvet whisper.
“Delicious, isn’t it? Almost as sweet as you’ll taste when I have you spread open on our bed later. I plan to take my time… licking every inch of you until you’re shaking and dripping down my chin.”
Your thighs clenched under the table. Loki’s smirk deepened as his hand slid beneath the heavy tablecloth, resting high on your thigh. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles, inching higher with every pass but never quite reaching where you wanted him.
“Problem, darling?” he asked innocently, tilting his head. “You look a little flushed. Is the wine too strong? Or is it the thought of my tongue buried inside you while you moan my name?”
You shot him a warning look, but he only chuckled, low and rich.
“I do love when you try to glare at me like that. It makes me want to bend you over this table and remind you exactly who owns this pretty body.” His fingers pressed firmer into your inner thigh. “Though today I’m being generous. I’m letting you think you’re in charge.”
Lunch continued like that—Loki feeding you bites between increasingly filthy promises, his hand never leaving your thigh, his voice a constant teasing murmur against your ear whenever he leaned in. By the time you left the restaurant, you were aching, wet, and thoroughly annoyed with how smug he looked about it.
Next came a quiet, magically concealed garden terrace high above the city. Ancient Asgardian trees bloomed around you, their flowers glowing softly in the afternoon light. It felt private enough that you thought you might get a moment of peace.
You were wrong.
Loki walked beside you with his arm looped possessively around your waist, pulling you close as you strolled.
“You’re breathtaking when you’re flustered, you know,” he purred, lips brushing your temple. “That pretty blush on your cheeks… the way your breath catches. It makes me want to ruin you right here against this tree.”
A shiver ran down your spine. Then you felt it—phantom fingers, created by his seidr, ghosting down the back of your neck, tracing your spine, then slipping lower to brush teasingly between your legs. You gasped sharply.
Loki’s face remained perfectly innocent as he admired a glowing flower. “Something wrong, my love?”
“You’re impossible,” you hissed, cheeks burning.
He laughed softly, the sound dark and delighted. “And yet you’re soaked for me already, aren’t you? Poor thing. All this tension and I haven’t even properly touched you yet.”
Another illusionary caress slid along your inner thigh, higher this time, pressing firmly against your aching core for just a second before vanishing. You grabbed his arm tighter, knees nearly buckling.
“Loki…”
“Yes, darling?” He turned to you with mock concern, green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Use your words. Tell me what you need. Or better yet… save all that fire for later when you try to put me in my place.” His voice dropped even lower. “I’m very much looking forward to watching you attempt to shut me up.”
The tension was unbearable now—your body thrumming with need, irritation, and raw desire. Every teasing word, every phantom touch, every wicked promise made you more determined to turn the tables the second you got him alone.
Loki seemed to sense it. He pulled you closer, lips brushing your ear one last time.
“Careful, love. If you keep looking at me with that murderous, needy little glare… I might not make it home before I start begging you to ruin me.”
By the time you returned to your quarters, the air between you was thick enough to choke on. The door had barely clicked shut before you turned to him.
Loki barely had time to open his mouth with another smug remark before you shoved him hard in the chest. He let you do it—because of course he did, this was your birthday and he was playing along—but the wicked grin on his face said he was enjoying every second of it.
The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell gracefully onto the mattress, sprawling like a king on his throne. His dark hair fanned out against the silk sheets as he looked up at you with gleaming eyes.
“Well, well,” he drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “Someone’s feeling bold tonight. Are you finally going to—mmph.”
You cut him off by climbing onto the bed and kissing him fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss was messy, demanding, and you bit his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss. When you pulled back, his pupils were already blown wide.
“Quiet,” you whispered against his mouth.
Loki chuckled, low and filthy. “Oh darling, you’ll have to do better than that if you want to shut me up. I have so many plans to tell you about. For instance, I was thinking I’d lay you down and—”
You silenced him again, this time by dragging your mouth down the sharp line of his jaw to his neck. You sucked hard on his pulse point, then bit down. His words dissolved into a surprised groan.
Your hands moved with purpose, pushing his expensive jacket off his shoulders. He helped just enough for you to strip it away, but his mouth kept running.
“Eager little thing, aren’t you? Taking charge on your birthday… How adorable. Though if you ask me—”
You yanked his shirt open, buttons scattering. The moment his pale, toned chest was exposed, you leaned down and bit his collarbone, hard. Loki arched slightly beneath you, a breathy laugh turning into a low moan.
“Fuck— you’re vicious today. I like it. But you know I could just flip us over and—”
Another bite, lower this time, right above his nipple. You followed it with a slow, wet lick. His words faltered again as his hand came up to grip your thigh.
You worked slowly, deliberately, savoring every inch of him. His shirt was tossed aside. You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, over the lean muscle of his abdomen, watching the way his stomach tensed under your touch. When you reached his belt, you took your time unbuckling it, letting your knuckles brush teasingly against the growing hardness beneath his trousers.
Loki’s breath hitched, but he still tried to speak.
“You’re trembling, pet. So wet for me already, I can practically smell it. When I finally get my hands on you, I’m going to—”
You shut him up properly this time—leaning down and kissing him deep and filthy while your hand palmed him through his pants. The moan he let out into your mouth was deeply satisfying. You squeezed gently, stroking him until his hips twitched.
When you pulled back, his lips were kiss-swollen and his usual smug mask was cracking just a little.
“You talk too much,” you murmured, hooking your fingers into his waistband and slowly dragging his trousers and underwear down his long legs.
Loki’s cock sprang free, hard and flushed, curving proudly against his stomach. He opened his mouth again, probably to make some arrogant comment, but you immediately wrapped your fingers around his length and gave him one firm, slow stroke.
His head fell back against the pillows with a broken groan.
“Much better,” you murmured, leaning down to drag your tongue along the underside of his length. You took your time, licking and teasing, savoring the way his thighs tensed under your hands.
You worked him with your mouth and hand in tandem—long, slow strokes followed by swirling your tongue around the sensitive head. Every time he tried to reach for you, to touch your hair or pull you closer, you caught his wrists and pinned them down to the mattress above his head.
“Darling—ah—I merely wanted to—” he started again, voice strained.
You sucked him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, and his back arched clean off the bed with a broken moan. When you pulled off with a wet pop, you gave him a warning look.
“Hands stay up there,” you ordered.
Loki’s eyes flashed with wicked delight, even as he obeyed. “So demanding on your birthday. I must say, I— nngh—”
You cut him off again by taking him back into your mouth, bobbing your head while your hand stroked what you couldn’t fit. You edged him mercilessly—bringing him right to the brink with tight, fast strokes, only to slow down or pull off completely when his hips started thrusting up desperately.
Each time you denied him, his teasing grew more fractured.
“You wicked little— mmh— you’re going to regret teasing a god like this… or perhaps I’ll— fuck, right there—”
You discovered something delicious in the process.
When you released his cock for a moment and moved higher up his body, you dragged your teeth along his collarbone and sucked hard on the side of his neck. Loki’s entire body shuddered violently beneath you. A deep, needy sound escaped his throat—nothing like his usual controlled purr.
His neck and chest were incredibly sensitive.
You smiled against his skin and lavished attention there—kissing, licking, and biting along his sharp collarbones, then lower to his chest. When your tongue flicked over one of his nipples, Loki actually whimpered, hips jerking up into nothing.
“Oh? You like that?” you whispered, delighted by your discovery. You pinned his wrists harder with one hand while your mouth closed around his nipple, sucking and grazing it with your teeth.
“Darling— shit— you’re going to kill me,” he gasped, voice cracking beautifully. The usual smugness was rapidly dissolving into raw, breathy desperation. “If you keep that up I won’t be able to— ah— fuck, please—”
You switched to the other side of his chest, giving it the same treatment while your free hand returned to his cock, stroking him torturously slow. You kept him right on the edge, never letting him tip over, while your mouth continued its assault on his neck and chest until his skin was covered in marks and his usual silver tongue was reduced to broken moans and half-formed teases.
By the time you pulled back slightly to admire your work, Loki was a gorgeous wreck beneath you—chest heaving, hair wild, lips parted, and eyes glassy with frustrated need.
He still tried one last taunt, voice hoarse:
“You think this is enough to shut me up? I can still— I can still tell you exactly how tight and wet you—”
You squeezed his cock firmly and leaned down to bite his neck again.
Loki’s words dissolved into a loud, shameless moan.
You couldn’t wait any longer.
Loki was still trying to run his mouth, even while panting and flushed beneath you, his cock twitching desperately in your hand.
“Still think you can— mmh— keep this up, darling? I give you ten minutes before you’re the one begging m—”
You shut him up the best way possible.
Rising up on your knees, you lined him up and sank down onto his cock in one smooth, relentless motion. The stretch was perfect, filling you completely, and the broken groan that tore from Loki’s throat was deeply satisfying.
“F-fuck—!” His head slammed back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut as you bottomed out.
You didn’t give him time to recover.
You set a punishing pace immediately, rolling your hips hard and fast, riding him with every ounce of built-up frustration from his endless teasing. The wet sound of skin meeting skin filled the room as you ground down on him, taking him deep with every roll.
Loki’s silver tongue finally began to fracture.
“Gods— you’re so— ah— tight— fuck, darling, slow down or I’ll—” His words dissolved into a choked moan as you clenched around him deliberately.
You tangled one hand in his messy black hair and yanked his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. Your other hand wrapped lightly around it, applying just enough pressure to make his pupils blow even wider.
“Look at you,” you whispered, voice low and sweet as you rode him harder, grinding your clit against his pelvis with every thrust. “So pretty when you fall apart. All that teasing and now you can’t even form a full sentence.”
Loki’s hands flew to your hips, gripping hard enough that you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. His fingers dug in, but he didn’t try to take control. He let you use him exactly as you wanted, hips jerking up desperately to meet your punishing rhythm.
“V-velsk— nngh— you wicked little mortal,” he gasped, slipping into Asgardian curses as you clenched around him again. “I’m going to— fuck— you feel too good— shit—”
You leaned down, lips brushing his ear while still riding him relentlessly.
“You’re only allowed to come when I say so,” you murmured, tightening your grip in his hair. “I want to hear you beg first. My beautiful, talkative god… look how wrecked you are for me.”
Loki let out a broken whimper, his usual elegance completely shattered. His chest was heaving, skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat, and every time you sank down hard he made the most delicious sounds — raw, desperate moans mixed with fractured curses in his native tongue.
“Járn— ah— please— you’re going to ruin me—” he gasped, voice cracking beautifully as you rolled your hips in a slow, devastating circle before slamming back down.
His neck and chest were flushed red from your earlier marks, and every time your hand flexed lightly around his throat, his cock throbbed hard inside you.
You kept riding him mercilessly, controlling every movement, every angle, watching with dark satisfaction as the God of Mischief came completely undone beneath you.
You could feel him trembling beneath you, his cock throbbing deep inside your soaked cunt with every brutal roll of your hips. Loki’s grip on your waist was bruising, but he still obeyed — letting you stay in complete control even as he unraveled.
You slowed your pace just enough to torture him, grinding down deep and slow, clenching around him on every downstroke.
“Beg,” you whispered against his lips, tightening your hand around his throat. “You’ve been running that pretty mouth all day. Now I want to hear you beg for it.”
Loki’s eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide with desperation. His silver tongue had almost completely deserted him, but he still tried to resist one last time.
“I— I don’t beg, pet— ah, fuck—” His words cut off in a choked moan as you slammed down hard and rolled your hips in tight, filthy circles.
You tugged his hair harder and leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
“Beg, Loki. Or I’ll stop right now and leave you like this.”
A broken whimper escaped him. His pride finally shattered.
“Please—” he gasped, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Please, darling— let me come. I need it— I need you— fuck, please let me fill you up. I’ll be good— I swear, just please—”
The sound of the God of Mischief begging beneath you was pure ecstasy.
You rewarded him by riding him harder than ever, fast and relentless, using his cock exactly how you wanted. One hand stayed wrapped around his throat, the other fisted tight in his hair as you fucked him into the mattress.
Loki’s head suddenly threw back against the pillows, mouth falling open in a loud, broken cry.
“Fuck—! I’m— I’m going to—”
His orgasm hit him like a storm.
He came hard with a shattered moan that echoed through the room, hips jerking up violently as he spilled deep inside you. Thick, hot pulses of his release filled you while emerald magic exploded around the room — green and gold sparks flickering wildly across the walls and ceiling. Illusions of stars and blooming flowers shimmered in and out of existence around the bed as his control completely collapsed. His body shook beneath you, chest heaving, neck arched beautifully as he rode out every wave.
The sight and feeling of him falling apart so completely pushed you over the edge right after him.
You ground down hard, clit rubbing against his pelvis as you used his twitching, oversensitive cock to chase your own pleasure. Your orgasm crashed over you in powerful waves, cunt clenching rhythmically around him as you moaned his name. Pleasure flooded every nerve as you rode him through both your climaxes, drawing out every last drop until you were both trembling and spent.
You both stayed locked together for a long moment, breathing ragged and bodies trembling. Loki’s cock was still buried deep inside you, twitching with the aftershocks as you slowly came down from your high.
Eventually, his arms wrapped around you with surprising gentleness. He pulled you down flush against his chest, holding you there as if he never wanted to let go. His heart was pounding wildly beneath your ear.
For once, the God of Mischief was nearly speechless.
He pressed slow, lazy kisses to the top of your head, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth—each one softer than the last. His long fingers traced soothing patterns along your spine, gentle and reverent.
“You…” he finally murmured, voice rough and low, “were magnificent.”
You smiled against his sweaty skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone where you’d left a particularly dark mark earlier. Loki shivered at the contact but didn’t pull away.
“You’ll pay for that tomorrow, darling,” he whispered, a hint of his usual mischief threading through the exhaustion. “I promise you’ll scream my name until your voice gives out… but tonight was… exquisite.”
He tilted your chin up gently so he could look at you. His green eyes were still hazy, lashes heavy, a rare look of pure bliss softening his sharp features.
“I must admit,” he continued quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I rather enjoyed letting you take the lead. Seeing you so fierce, so determined to shut me up…” A soft, breathless chuckle escaped him. “I didn’t think I’d like surrendering quite so much. You were perfect.”
You rested your forehead against his, basking in the warmth of his body and the rare vulnerability in his voice.
“I loved it too,” he added, almost shyly. “Being yours completely tonight. You may have ruined me for a little while, love.”
His arms tightened around you, one hand slowly stroking your hair as the other caressed your waist. The room was quiet now, the last flickers of his magic long faded, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the sheets.
You nestled deeper into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—ozone, leather, and warm skin. Pressing one last, lingering kiss just beneath his jaw, you whispered softly:
