Ok just...see the vision, James Leighton Masters and a student who got into Oxford thanks to a scholarship and not because she comes from a rich family.
Plus: James seems like the type who gets bored very easily, so I see him as the type who, if he has a girlfriend, only dates her for the image or status and not because he really cares about her. But it's always so dull, right?
So he and reader meet because they were both chosen for the same internship, and... what can low-class girls be intelligent and climb the social ladder?! Unnatural, impossible (he's already so down for her it's almost pathetic).
But how could he get close to her without ruining his image? Simple, there's an exclusive event coming up, but James doesn't want to limit himself to bringing a companion, he wants to have fun and he wants her to entertain him. So what better idea than to get the reader, teach her the basics of manners, how to speak and behave, the rules of etiquette, give her some expensive brand clothes and take her with him? I mean if no one knows who she is there's no chance he'll be caught entertaining himself with a paesant, right? And James would also love to see reader trying to keep up with rich people's talk that she doesn't even understand, making up stories that are believable enough, looking at him desperately looking for help with her adorable doe eyes when social anxiety is making itself felt.
By the way, am I delulu?
â đ
âmy competition.â
a/n: okay first of all weâre delulu together babe, and i love the bee!! sorry this took me so long to get to but this is half fanfic and half thoughtsâ but oh this is so james itâs unreal. the snarky comments, the image to keep up with the way he would be backhanded in everything he does, playing his status even more in front of the rest of everyone yet he has that glimmer in his eyes every time he looks at you. some sort of.. affection.
pairing: james leighton-masters x f!reader
warnings: james being james, class difference and heavy descriptions of it, patronising, teasing, offices, light mentions of smut.
word count: i have no idea ill check it when i reread, but its quite a lot.. and this isnât proofread so dont shoot me.
heâs definitely been in and out of relationships like wildfire, one night stands coming are tallied too many to count and he can hardly even remember their names, spoiler alert; he canât remember any of them. surrounded by the lot of them, all rich wannabeâs from daddyâs money but you come along.. fresh faced, determined and way out-of-place you. lets say youâre lower middle class, not to behind the breadline but âcommonâ enough to people of mr leighton-mastersâ status, and youâve finally accepted that internship, the one youâve worked so hard for, the one that runs right in line with that degree at oxford youâve been dreaming about for years. so beyond the strings and teases of âwhat so youâre posh now?â you pack up what you can and move closer into the heart of London and right into the lionâs dean. literally.
james couldnât really care less, this was a simple internship to him, one his father had urged him into, something about making the portfolio a âlittle heftierâ and who was he to argue? he had footsteps to follow in, and a reputation to uphold, regardless if heâd rather sink himself in the nearest pub or landfill. he knew this was going to be a walk in the park, a drop of his name and flash of that grin and people are already falling at his feet, simple really heâd told himself. but no, not right now because turning up on the first day, expecting to be greeted alone, and favoured, there was you. in your poplin skirt and cotton blouse, rocking back onto your heels, or should I say patent flats, bag in hand, hair still a ruffled mess from the back but clean as you could make it in the front talk to the managerâ his manager.
his eyes raked over you, in disbelief and frustration as he looked around running a shaky hand through his hair as he turned the corner, taking a breath of composure before losing it. he peered over the sea of desks and back to you again, everyone seemed so weathered, so tired and drained of every ounce of colour and life form from the consistent back to back of this godforsaken status race. a 9-5 of this for what, responsibility, paying the bills in this high rise in the centre of London because everyone is in need here right? no, reputation thatâs it they already had the money. but you, you were wide eyed and ready, a little out of place in your tatted jumper and bright in the ways that nepotism had already drained the others, himself included. the air around you reeked of something.. different something new, and he hated it, yet he was drawn to it already.
he knew he wanted to get close to you, knew that he had to, heâd already wooed everyone else in line and you were the next link in the chain, the next notch in his belt or so he thought. he racked his brain for days, watching you in passing every time you strutted past his temporary desk with a curt smile and a nod, listening to your quips before he could even come up with his own, how you stood your ground against the higher ups after every assignment. james figured it would be best to judge competition from afar at first, best not to hinder you and scare you off just yet, but if there was anything about him, he wouldnât take runner up for long. it angered him seeing you charm you way around, getting it all right whilst he sat there fruitless, everyone else just gave him a more half assed nod than you did, he wasnât on top, but still he let you have it- for now.
so he slumped in his chair, knees knocking the underside of the desk as he traced the lines of the makeshift partition wall between him and everyone else. he had to get his way some how, whatever way for whatever reason he found himself growing more and more frustrated by the day, but still drawn.. to you, and as he fell down a spiral he found it. well rather, his finger dragged too hard along the wall until he felt a sting, the thin lines off a calendar that hung there had caught his finger in his daydream, hard enough he brought it to his lips, cursing the bloody thing for being there in the first place. and as the crimson encased his lips, his eyes flickered over the dates.
Nothing.
Nonsense.
Newcomerâs Welcome Gala! - 27 September.
Agh, there we go. Bingo. what better way to get to know you, I mean wrap you under his wing and work his way up the ranks. he fought with himself at that, but how could you deny it? handsome and charming, about your age compared to the geriatrics that mostly surrounded you, a friend and confidant in this new world that you clearly arenât used to. so he bucked up the courage then and there, deciding it wasnât long enough to wait, after all if you are to be plus one youâll have to be close, and a little privacy between you wouldnât be awful.
youâd been typing away for a good forty minutes straight, glancing out of the window every now and again, the skyline drab but wide enough it was something you werenât used to, only made you feel smaller but it was a start. things were going well for the most part, that small apartment you were renting out had been coming together nicely, the managers were somehow impressed by your certification and youâd already made a few distant friends, but there was one thing.
that young man who was running alongside you, he looked to be around your age, the one with the backhanded charming smirk that reached your eyeline every now and again. youâd noticed the neat mop of bleached blond over the sea of other heads, and every time, even without saying a word to each other yet it was as if his eyes were on you before yours met his. every time. there seemed to be some frostiness, and why wouldnât there be, running for the same job, head to head, whether he needed it or not it didnât matter, you knew you had your work cut out for you. so him sauntering in front of your computer right now, did not make it any easier.
âI donât believe weâve met yet, Iâm James. Leighton-Masters, but you can forget that part of course, itâs just James.â he towered over you extending a hand over the black electronic, maybe because the low setting you kept this chair on, or maybe it was on purpose you couldnât tell. but for how heâd been acting, almost avoidant he seemed oddly humble, even if the name drop seemed to mean something, not that youâd ever heard of it.
âNo I guess not, Iâm Y/N. Itâs nice to finally meet you.â you smiled, figuring it best to keep things short and sweet, but he carried on, he pushed just a little. because itâs nice to finally meet him, finally? so either you waited or youâre playing him just as hard as he is meaning to you, beating him at his own game. his jaw ticked as he looked down at you, eyes narrowing just enough you didnât notice, and he let out a huffed laugh. he didnât understand it, how you could sit there, so pretty, entranced by your work and not by him, yet you had his attention and drove him mad already.
âWell, Iâd say a few days was enough, getting started isnât everyoneâs strong point I realise, however I did notice something..â he quipped, and looked around, elbows now resting on the overhead of the desk wall, head peering enough over the computer and more into your face. âThere is that newcomerâs gala nonsense in the next few weeks, and I was wondering if you were going, or youâd like to?â
âThe gala for us you mean? Right, of course Iâll be there, it seems alright.â you announced back. he chuckled a little, eyes not leaving yours. alright. the way you talked, the freedom of the way the words left your mouth, even the way your eyes lit up when you said them, like they actually meant something, not dark and calloused and empty, but just alright? heâd never heard such common and uncared for language, especially in this setting. he was in two minds, albeit project drawn to you like a madman and wanting to actually know you, you were something he wasnât used to and that part of him was unsure. the other? keeping you under his wing, for satisfaction of being the one to teach you, guide you, and be there for you, because in his eyes it seemed like someone had to.
your eyebrow raised at his laugh, âWhat?â your head lowered as your tilted your head just enough. his snickers died down as he pulled back a little, âJust alright is it? You know weâll have to work on that, Iâve heard those galaâs are pretty prestigious, or pretentious depending on how you look at it. But hey if youâre offering Iâd gladly accompany you darling.â there it was, he couldnât help himself, just had to name drop a little, push the line just enough. he knew this was a gala for you both, but if this was going to be competition, well why not keep enemies close. your face reddened however, cursing yourself silently at the terms you were using, itâs not that they were that bad itâs just that people here were that pretentious, he was right. you noticed the subtly of his jabs, whether that were directed outwards or at you and kept a tight lip, not wanted to let your so called âcommonalityâ get the better of you in this corporate space, because silently, and unbeknownst to him like you, you were in two minds yourself. punt him across the room back to his desk, or accept the offer, and you held off on the firstâ for now, and uttered just a,
âI think that would be wonderful, I look forward to you being my plus one.â oh you had fire, his eyes darted on you and he nodded, a forced yet tender smile coming to his mouth. your plus one eh? he could handle that.
and thatâs how this started..
he drew closer now, not being shy of walking past your desk with a small sly grumble of âmorningâ, occasionally dropping a coffee there whether you would drink it or not. insisting on your colleagues to let him be the one to take the papers to your desk, fingers lingering over them every time he pushed them over the table, watching your eyes follow. and the team projects? he was your partner now, always moaning, already some âharmlessâ insult to one of your bosses whispered in your ear lowly enough to make you laugh, but close enough to make your hair stand on end. you didnât know what he was up to and honestly? he didnât either completely, his stomach was in knots half the time around you, and heâd never been that kind or so he told himself. comforted himself over rather. but he watched you still, the way you scribbled notes in that awkward way, the way you balanced the pen between your fingers, or how you chewed the inside of your cheek when you were deep in thought. he told himself itâs because you were careless but he still found himself smirking instead of sneering.
james would make an effort in the weeks and days that led up to it to be there, by your side, not moving.. for anything, or anyone. it started in the workplace, hanging around with you after hours when only the busy bodies and cleaners were left, insisting it was âintern workâ and he should stay behind with you. he even brought his laptop at the desk beside yours as you worked together, asking the odd question here and there and for the most part you actually did get quite a lot of work done, though you felt his gaze still burning into the side of your head. the piles of worksheets flattened into almost nothing, making the work for the next couple of days somewhat simpler, and when the coffee cups were drained james would be there with another just to take the edge off. but you both cursed, slumping in your chairs and practically high-fiving on the overtime. you were grateful, and so he was he even if he wouldnât admit it, he was actually helpful and good at what he did when he wasnât busy doodling on empty pieces of paper and playing with the random trinkets on someone elseâs desk, making a joke out of whatever the hell that is. and he was intrigued by you even more, your smarts rubbed off on him more than he liked to admit, you werenât shy of a challenge nor were you ever really stuck, you had studied for this, worked hard for this, most people even he found himself at times getting stuck on the basics before it even begun. and that wasnât because he was an idiot, no, but he didnât care for all of this, you? you had passion, and that was admirable, attractive even.
but that wasnât all, no he started in on you more starting to offerâno, insistâthat he would help you âprepare.â the way he said it made it sound like an insult, as though you were raw clay he had to sculpt into something passable. but when he corrected the way you held a wine glass back at your apartment, his fingers slid over yours, guiding them to the stem delicately, bracing his other arm onto the counter. it encased you enough his breath pricking at your ears, âSilly thing I know, but I wouldnât want to see you be shown up by those idiots.â you rolled your eyes at him, muttering that you already knew how to drink, but you didnât pull your hand away and you both stood there for a moment as the red liquid swirled in the glass. both somehow questioning what was happening.
the lessons then bled into evenings and you two because somewhat of a gossip around the office, the two newbies, always leaving together, always catching each others eye, much to his chagrin and liking. all the while, he showed you how to pace yourself in conversation, how to glide through a room instead of trudging, how to act like âa ladyâ but he never put you down for it, only teasing of course but it was lighter now, something softer. that he already saw that and tenfold in you but his own demons got the best of him every time. you accused him of being a snob, he countered with a slow grin and said, âAnd yet youâre listening.â sometimes heâd push it just a little and heâd lean too close, lowering his voice just enough that it brushes your skin, dipping his chin so that you can see that familiar glint in his eye. and when you get flustered? he pretends not to notice, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.
and the finale? the night before the gala is where all tensions break and unfold.
heâs standing behind you, steadying you shoulder as you run your hands over the lace and silk of your dress, his hands firm but not unkind. âHead up,â James says quietly, his voice softer than it usually is. he finds you in the mirror, not daring to look away, taking all of you in and his pupils dilate just slightly, a sincerity more than anything, âTheyâll want to look down on you, donât give them a chance.â
your chin tilts upwards on instinct following his voice, but you feel the weight of his words and the heavy rise and fall of his chest pushed up against you back. the room feels too small and the air dense between you, his words are enough to make your head swirl in anticipation and these moments shared between you have been growing stronger by the day. even if he wouldnât make a move beyond jumping the line. for weeks itâs been snide remarks, stolen glances, arguments sharpened like knivesâand now, his hands are gentle, his tone is more than protective, something you never expected from him.
and when you turn to look at him, glancing down and away from the mirror, he reaches his finger along your jaw. his face an inch or two away from yours and his grin smooth, there isnât a mock in sight but neither of you say a word and the silence only stretchesâ thick, aliveâ breaking when you lean forward just a fraction, a dare in your eye, and he takes it. pulling the distance between you both with a hand wrapped around your waist, lips locking to yours, the kiss is nothing like the teasing smirks or clipped words that have passed between you. its heated, fierce, his mouth moving against yours like heâs been holding himself back for far too long. other arm coming around to meet his own at your skin, keeping you there as though heâs afraid you might vanish.
you clutch at his shirt, tugging him closer without thinking, the fabric twisting under your fists. its far from careful and it sure isnât polite, but itâs honest, raw and consuming, more passionate than either of you imagined you could be. and when you finally break apart breathless, he lingers, his forehead resting against yours with a huff.
âProper manners,â he murmurs, lips curving into a crooked smile, âdonât usually involve kissing your competition.â
james leighton masters who holds his hand over your mouth whilst fingering you through your panties in the library, making you bite back your moans into his hand. and he doesnât stop until your a puddled mess under your skirt, looking deep into your eyes as he sucks your wetness of of his fingers.
james leighton masters who letâs you cockwarm him during riot club meetings whilst heâs sat in his chair, or throne, as he calls it. rubbing your thighs and praising you for âtaking him so wellâ whilst the other boys are causing a fuss. definitely shifting once in a while to make you squirm.
james leighton masters who at the dinner table leans in close, without warning his voice a dripping poison and sun in his voice, âkeep still, if you make a sound, Iâll make you regret it.â before you can blink, his hand snakes under the table, yanking your skirt aside and heâs on his knees. ignoring every eye, he buries his face between your thighs, nose brushing your soaked heat. his tongue dips deep, slow and ruthless, testing your silence while driving you wild. his fingers grip your thighs, holding you steady as your body trembles, his nose nudging at your clit, testing to see if youâll listen to his warnings even when heâs making you cum. and he only comes up with his lips slick with your taste, smirking like he owns you â and the whole damn room.
james leighton masters who would catch you off guard after your sports lesson, pulling you behind the lockers, hand still over your mouth as he grinds into you, hips moving with slow, deliberate control. turning you around to press you up against them as he groans into your hair, yanking it back just enough to mouth at your neck.
james leighton masters who gets sweet on you after sex, kissing your bruises and the teeth marks gently as if he wasnât the one who put them there, readjusting his uniform and yours as you get ready for the next class, whispering forget me nots and a soft âyou are beautiful, dove..â before disappearing into the crowded hall.
james leighton masters who gets jealous and pissy after seeing you talk to someone else, even for a moment, maybe some other boy in your class, one heâs kept an eye on for a while and heâs pressing you about him as you walk around the school grounds, ignoring his antics as much as you can. before he snakes his arm around your waist slyly stopping you in your tracks with a heavy, âyou know youâre mine right?â breath hot just under your ear, lips ghosting your jawline.
james leighton masters who likes pinning your wrists above your head whilst fucking you, sometimes with his hands, sometimes with his tie, making you take all of him as he lets his frustrations out, ranting about everyone and everything pounding into you and yet, his solaceâ you, are moaning and whining underneath him. keeping you a writhing mess until you clench down just enough on him that he lets go.
james leighton masters who gets off on you wearing his clothes, and not just any clothes. his suits, his uniforms, even his black tie dress suit for club dinners. he has pictures in a hidden album of you wearing just his dinner jacket, red marks up and down your breasts and hips, makeup smudged and hair a mess. and only you can do that and every once in a while heâll open it and heâs already hard.
james leighton masters who writes you dirty little love notes on anything he can find, napkins, pieces of paper, even his own revision and study books, dropping them into your lap during class . âmind if i come up to your dorm later?â , âyou rub your legs every time you look at me, wet already?â , âi can already remember how you taste, sweet and mine.â
james leighton masters who never lets you leave once you stay in his dorm room for the night, holding you close wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tight to his chest. making excuses to keep you, or for âjust a bit longer darlingâ and sticking his tongue down your throat before you can protest.
â a/n: a little something for you lovelies because i canât stop, and heâs my brainworm now and my tag hotties: @villainscharm đ
james leighton-masters (the riot club) stuffs when he likes you/dating because iâm working on a fic for my lovelies đ
a/n: iâm aware this isnât freddie from the riot club, but it is around the same era and no one has gifs of james but this is especially for you ml @villainscharm :))
warnings: smutty, teasing, posh boy pushes boundaries, power play, oxford people
mr leighton-masters doesnât ask for permission, being president of the âclubâ has its perks and heâs well aware of it. whether youâre close to him and the boys and hanging out at the pub or in study groups, heâs always close to you, always leaning in with that sly grin, lips brushing your ear, from wherever youâre sitting, voice velvet-dark:
âIf you wanted to say no, you shouldâve done it already.â
and when you giggle or no protest? heâs pulling you into his lap..
he knows your weak spots and hits them like a maestro. that little hollow beneath your ear, the inside of your thigh, the curve of your ribs â all spots heâll find with his mouth or fingers and hold your attention hostage until youâre gasping his name.
he loves teasing you mercilessly â slow, torturous kisses that leave you wanting when youâre in the study hall, fingers dancing just out of reach at a club dinner, whispers of whatâs to come as he trails his hand down your spine. âPatience, darling. Youâre far too eager.â
no matter where either one of you are, heâs always watching you. not in a possessive way, although it definitely is, but with the smug satisfaction of a hunter who knows heâs caught the most beautiful prey with affection though heâll never admit it. he could care less who sees, if youâre his he is yours, and if youâre not? well heâll just have to do better.
given the fact youâll most likely be another student at oxford, youâll find James sprawled across a study table, books half-open but his attention all on you. he messes up your notes with a deliberate hand, grinning when you protest, âYouâre distracting me.â
âOnly because you let me,â he replies, leaning in just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath. that smirk ever present on his face.
he keeps word of the club silent when first meeting you, keeping you away from it more than he would others. itâs notorious, and most people already know the ins and outs of who is apart of it, but the secrets? even the darker ones, he detaches from, choosing to keep them unless you ask. also is careful on inviting you to meetings, but if you do, youâre carefully placed on his lap, away from the other idiots, as he says.
definitely has got a habit of showing up unannounced at your dorm room, tapping the door with a sweet smile that totally isnât insinuating. you pretend to be annoyed, but you always let him in â because whatâs a little mischief between the two of you? and sometimes he does just come to pay you a visit. cue him draped over your bed ranting about all the people that pissed him off that day.
sometimes, when the college is asleep, James insists on dragging you outside for a quiet walk through the moonlit grounds. the cold air sharpens everything â your breath mingling, his hand sliding to rest at the small of your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns that set your skin on fire.
during the day, between lectures and meetings, James sends you cryptic texts â a cheeky emoji, a quote only youâd understand, or a simple, âCanât wait to see you. đâ and itâs his way of claiming you in a world full of rules and expectations.
now like a lot of freddieâs characters, ahem teasing boyfriend, heâll never say he wants you outright. instead, he throws out lines like, âYouâre far too tempting for your own good,â or âIf youâre not careful, youâll lose more than your composure tonight.â the teasing is deliberate â a game he knows you canât resist playing.
that smirk of his is his weapon and his reward; every teasing stroke or heated glance, he waits for your reaction â the flush creeping up your neck, the bite of your lip, the way your eyes darken. itâs like a private show, and heâs thriving on the control. when heâs feeling especially cocky, heâll trace his fingers just under your jawline, tilting your face up, and whisper, âYou could beg, and Iâd still take my time.â
post sex or just your average heavy petting? forget being cold or distant. heâll be trailing lazy kisses down your neck, fingers playing gentle rhythms on your skin, whispering, âYouâre mine. Remember that.â itâs possessive but soft, and it melts every bit of arrogance away.
now he does have is oddly romantic moments like remembering the small things. heâll casually recall the tiniest detail you mentioned once â like how you take your tea, or your favorite song â and surprise you by showing up with exactly that, a smirk playing on his lips like itâs no big deal, but inside, it means the world.
holding your hand in public is a must and not because he wants to flaunt youâthough he does love that, tooâbut because itâs his way of saying, âYouâre mine, and Iâm yours,â without words. And he never lets go, even when the world expects him to.
sometimes, no words are spoken at all. just sitting side by side, reading or watching the sunset, hands inching closer until they find each other naturally. those quiet, mundane moments become electric because theyâre with you.
lastly.. for now.. james surprises you with lines of poetry or lyrics scribbled on a napkin or whispered in the middle of a riotous party, knowing youâll catch the meaning beneath the bravado.
I loved your writing! Could you write Loki Sandman with Reader getting pregnant, what would his reaction be, and with him really getting attached to the baby?
thank you so much darling and for your request! and I can sure do that, I'm already rewatching season 2 of the sandman right now and this loki kick isn't ever leaving.. nor is freddie fox ;) I hope you enjoy the emotionally unstable ⊠unhinged ⊠horny guardian of bump mode??!!
word count: 1,235k
warnings; a touch of angst, bit of smutty thoughts because Loki is a fiend, pregnancy of course, afab!reader.
now, here's the kicker; he never wanted children.
heâs said it a hundred times, "Children are chains, not blessings.â, âThe gods are poor fathersâworse mothers.â and the one you've heard the most, âI had children once. Look how that turned out.â
his voice always goes cold when he says it and he avoids talking about Themâthe ones from long ago. his monstrous lineage. his âlegacy,â spat like poison. he speaks of them like theyâre curses born from a war he started with himself, not children he should have fathered. some of them, deep regrets.
so when you whisper, âIâm pregnant,â he doesnât freeze. he burns.
loki is in a harsh state of denial and for someone who can wear a hundred faces, he tries very hard not to face this one, starting to convince himself the child wonât survive. not because youâre weakâbut because everything he touches turns to ash eventually. he pretends it doesnât matter, disappearing for a few days leaving you alone to contemplate by yourself, leaving the bitter sting of 'you're better off without me's' and 'it's not mine, it can't be.'
but he does return and when he does, oh, heâs gaunt and hollow-eyed, smelling like smoke and sorrow, kneeling before you not to beg but to surrender. He reads the rights of his wrongdoings, falling at your feet as if you were to strike himâ and at this point he wouldn't blame you. but instead, he rests there, vulnerable and teary-eyed, "Iâve ruined everything Iâve ever touched. But if youâll let me⊠Iâll try. For you.â
and try he does.
he may have started closed off, and to the outside world part him always will be, but not to you or the baby. and once he begins to overcome this, he is hypervigilant to the point of insanity. tracking your symptoms obsessively, trying to control everything, and when he canât, it drives him mad. he means well, but he is still himself of course. reads every mortal and immortal text on pregnancy, even at one point asks Dream (awkwardly) what dreams the unborn dream. (âThe child dreams in riddles. I hate riddles.â) and Loki just grins.
you catch him staring at your belly sometimes when he thinks youâre asleep, leaving magical protections around the place you with an expression like heâs trying to memorise something heâll never get to keep. but he wonât touch your belly at first, not until you take his hand and guide it there. and when the baby kicks? He flinches like heâs been stabbed.
âItâs real,â he whispers. âItâs real, and I didnât run.â
and when he becomes attached, more stable than he ever should be? oh he is possessive in a way that is visceral. like primitive god-magic kind of possessive. youâre carrying his child nowâhis second chance, and the idea of anyone threatening you? he would make the stars bleed.
doesnât let you lift a single damn thing. you reach for a cup? it floats to your hand, you try to tie your shoes? theyâre tied with a snap of his fingers, you sneeze? he materialises by your side in full panic-mode:
âWas that a mortal disease? Do I need to summon a plague spirit to punish whoever breathed near you?â
he walks behind you in public like a shadow with teeth, one hand always hovering at your lower back, the other ready to hex everyone. the bump becomes sacred to him and not just in any way, no in aâthis is my heart growing inside you and I donât know how to handle thatâ way. he whispers to your stomach in Old Norse at night, sometimes you wake up and find him curled around you, palm on your belly, tears dried on his cheek.
now, he turns darker on the outside world, as if he hasnât already, and absolutely thinks someone will come for you or the baby. or both. whether itâs Odin, the other Endless, or some vengeful deity from a forgotten pantheon it doesnât matter, he already knows that a God of his standing and with the bounty on his head, youâre sure to be under watch.
he wards your body, wards your food, wards your bloody slippers. heâs on top everything. âWhy are my shoes glowing, Loki?â âTo warn me if you fall. Obviously.â
even Dream is like, ââŠbro. Chill.â and Loki just hisses, âTouch them and Iâll tear your castle down brick by metaphorical brick, Dreamling.â
insatiable, thatâs one word to put it. and yes, he knows he should take it easy on you, but something about you swollen with his child? carrying him inside you?
It unravels him. heâs always been mad for you, but now, he growls like heâs barely keeping it together every time he touches you. kisses your belly mid-act, murmuring things like, âYou're so full. So perfect. Mine.â
the sight of you riding him, belly round, your hands in his hair? he loses his damn mind, not knowing where to lookâyour breasts, your lips, the life youâre carryingâit overwhelms his senses in the best way.
sometimes the sex is slow and worshipfulâlike heâs praying with his mouth between your thighs. other times? itâs animalistic. like he needs to mark you all over again. and he doesâneck, thighs, hips, anywhere skin stretches with new life.âYou shouldnât want this,â you whisper, flushed and breathless. Loki with teeth to your pulse,âIâve never wanted anything more than I want you like this. Glowing. Heavy. Untouchably mine.â
and post-sex and smug, he traces runes over your belly with feather-light fingers, not spellsâjust⊠names, symbols of protection. love. hope.
and fear.
âI am a liar,â he says softly. âBut I swear to you, this is the truest thing Iâve ever made.â
when the baby is born however you both somehow know it is different. this one wasnât meant, not a bargain, not as punishment, or a symbol or prophecy or mistake. this one was love, born from laughter and longing and late-night touches when the world was quiet. and that terrifies Loki more than anythingâbecause this time, if he loses them, it wonât be fate, itâll be his fault. and he doesnât think heâll survive that again.
heâs quiet, deathly quiet at that, so much so, you think heâs detached againâbut no, heâs just afraid to breathe. when the baby cries for the first time, something inside him snaps open like a ribcage splitting with light. he holds them, always bare hands, no glamours, no tricks. Just trembling fingers and salt-stung eyes.âHello,â he coos, âYouâre small. But I think youâve already bested me.â
the little things come in waves like when he gets jealous when anyone else holds the baby too long. yes, even you. or when he paces like a panther outside the nursery, making protective charms out of shadows and silk, standing âwatchâ even when you urge him to bed. and the way he kisses their forehead like heâs apologizing for every sin theyâll never know he committed.
you are each his home, and together thatâs all he could ask for even if he feels like he doesnât deserve it more than half the time. he feels changed by you, but with his child, more than he ever wanted to be, but want and need comes differently, unconditionally. and even he knows that.
summary: you, a young noblewoman, devout and yet curious find yourself accompanied by none other than Ser Gwayne Hightower, the knight that has stood beside you for almost every nameday since you met. And now, at the hour of the owl you kneel together at the pillars of the Sept, finding yourself in a much different position, and your knight cannot resist.Â
pairing: gwayne hightower x f!reader
warning(s): SMUT, slight age gap, porn with plot, gwayne has pervy thoughts, yearning, general canon courtship, forbidden lovers.
word count: 6.7K
a/n: this took way too long but I promise there is more, and this probably isn't my best work, though I'll be working on some more darker fics soon and I'll have to go over this, and I have your asks to get to but here you go gorgeous people!! enjoy :)
The Sept had already emptied, lit only by the votive of candles and the cold spill of moonlight through the stained glass windows that adorned the walls. And here, if only for a little while, amidst the smell of old stone and the heavy sweetness of burning myrrh, you felt as if you could breathe, so much so even the Gods themselves held their breath.
You already knew the troubles a girl, or it should be said a Lady, would face being here at such an hourâ the hour of the owl to be exact. But all of your duties had been undertaken, precisely day in and day out, everything asked of you without a moment of peace until now. So you knelt, shins pressed into the cold flooring without a care in the world, your skirts bunched up around you as you placed your elbows upon the altar. Your eyes pressed tightly together, only the flickering of orange behind your eyelids except the darkness and you began to say prayer, well, you tried. Word spoken only between you and the Gods, one for the fallen, one for the sick, one for the lesser noble and another for your mother, âmay she rest.â
But other thoughts crept in, the ones of the Lord your father is pushing you against, ever since sheâd been gone and since you reached your eighteenth nameday, marriage was the only answer. âFor your house, for your honour, and for your family.â He had told you many times over, much to your protest, and now it has gone on long enough, you are without choice.Â
A Tully boy of your age, sweet and boyish enough but he was immature, âdumb as a pikeâ as youâd called him, earning a few laughs from your chambermaids and a squire, but your father had had enough. âMany young ladies of your age would already be with child by now, you can do your house the grace of accepting this union.â
âBut he is-â, you began to protest as he stood across from you. âBut he is nothing, and to be your husband no less. A young, fine boy which will solidify our rank with the Riverlands. I have known Lord Tully since I myself was a boy, I have no doubt this will be reasonable.â He argued, eyes burning into yours as you looked away, before snapping your head up.
âYou are to have me married off over war matters, this is madness.â You barked, standing beside your bed as he dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand, and he came closer, standing before you, holding your hands in his. Reaching one hand to cup at your cheek, âThese things are not always so simple, my dear girl, but this is how we survive in this world, very few find such happiness so easily. Not even the Queens nor commoners lead such simplicity, but with this union, you will be safe, perhaps find your own happiness, love.â Love. The last word let a bitter taste in your mouth, questions running around your head beyond just the anger, the fearâ âDid you find that with mother?â It seemed to leave your lips without another thought, and his face hardened, eyes flicking down between you at the floor and back to you before smiling softly,Â
âIn time, very much..â This was no lie, but something in his voice pushed duty over any concept of love, of something worth fighting for more than just arrangement. âAnd you will too.â âFather-â You called back as he pulled away, the soft moment forgotten. âFather nothing, it is already settled.â
The creak of the door went on deaf ears as a cough rang out through your chambers, âMy Lord, you have been called upon in the council.â That familiar voice made you look, as you hung onto your bedpost, creeping around the corner as your father gave you a final look before turning away, uncovering the face. Ser Gwayne Hightower. The knight, the warrior that had manned your gates and guarded your cityâs walls from the horror that creep in in the night, the soft smile that would always greet you in the halls and the boy at only a few years older who would hold you at every upset, proclaiming with his shield and sword he would protect you.
Those same eyes met yours across the space of the roomâolder now, wearier, but still holding that same quiet sympathy. That same yearning, barely veiled, the one youâd always sensed but never dared name. You two hadnât been close, not really, not long enough to talk as youâd liked to. But youâd known him long enough to read the shift in his stanceâthe way time had leaned heavier into his bones, how even stillness sat like a burden on him now. He stood taller than you remembered, more solid, yet worn in the way a knight grows wornânot broken, but tempered. His armor caught the light in sharp angles, muscles shifting beneath the steel like a memory of youth.
He was handsome. Youâd known that from the start, you had even once jokedâboldly, perhaps too boldlyâthat he was far too pretty to waste behind a helm, that noble sons werenât meant to bleed. He'd overheard, of course. Said nothing, but smiled in that way that betrayed more than words. You hadnât known what it meant then, but in this time you believe you do.
He may have stepped in where he shouldnât haveâdrawn attention, made himself part of a fight that wasnât his. You were mid-argument with your father, when he pressed his ear beside the wood, slyly listening to your voices raised over the marriage he was arranging, and when he heard youâ you said noâtwice, then louder. And then and only the had Gwayne had moved through the doors, not a word spoken, not a challenge issued but just the sharp clatter of his armour as he announced himself.
It wasnât for pride. Not even for honor. But because he knewâknew you didnât want this, knew they were pushing too hard, too far. He didnât speak another word to you as your father used past him, but he didnât need to. You felt the truth in his silence, the weight of it, knowing that heâd been watching. Listening. Wanting.
And you knew, even then, that he didnât want that fate for you any more than you did.
Youâd come to the sept for silence, but it offers none, not tonight, even with your head bowed and hands steepled, your thoughts refuse to settle. You try to summon reverence, gratitudeâsomething holyâbut all that comes is the dull throb of resentment. Weeks. Maybe months, if you're lucky and then itâs over. A marriage sealed in parchment and gold, to a boy with empty eyes and no words of his own. And freedomâyour freedomâslips further from reach with every nod of your fatherâs head.
If only theyâd given you time, a little more time to patch your wounds, to shape your own path and maybe youâd have found a loverâsomeone with sharp wit and slower hands. Someone who read poetry or rode recklessly or kissed you like he meant it, and perhaps he wouldnât be noble, maybe heâd be a knight, one you could trust your secrets to in the dark.
And maybe⊠maybe itâs foolish to be kneeling in a sept praying for another fate, foolish to long for someone not written into the path the gods laid for you. But youâd be lying if you said there wasnât one man youâve thought of more than the others.
Gwayne.
Charming, disciplined, maddeningly polite Gwayne Hightower. Always standing just far enough away, always watching. Always choosing silence when you wished heâd just speak. And stillâwhen he looked at you, it burned. No words, no gestures, just those eyes, as if he already knew the shape of your longing.
Your thighs press together as you shift slightly on the cushion, half on the warmth and half on the hardened floor. Itâs unseemlyâblasphemous, maybe, but you donât stop. Because when your mind drifts now, it isnât to holy vows or golden rings, itâs to Gwayneâs hands braced against the altar. His mouth at your throat, the sheen of those rosy lips against yours. His armor cold against your bare skin.. If he touched you here, would the gods forgive it?
Or would they watch?
He took the stairs two at a time, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Steel clanked at his side with each step, the weight of his sword more irritating than reassuring. The sept loomed ahead, lit by thin, flickering lines of candlelight leaking through its tall windows, and still he climbedâlike absolution waited for him at the top.
It didnât, and he knew that.
He was cursing himself quietly, rhythmically. Not in the way soldiers did, not brash or loud, but tight and quiet, the way his father mightâve done when politics went sour. His boots struck stone harder than they needed to and his hands itched to curl into fists.
The council had been intolerable. Old men in silk arguing over troop placements and taxation with not a single ounce of understanding for what war cost in blood, in bone. And when heâd tried to speak senseâwhen heâd dared to voice concern for you, for the marriage being forced upon Lady Y/Nâtheyâd dismissed it as sentiment. âA knight ought not concern himself with maiden woes,â one of them had said, smug behind his wine cup. And there and then heâd nearly broken that goblet over the bastardâs head.
Training only made things worse, nothing worked today, not when his blade felt heavy and his thoughts felt heavier, swinging at his opponent with too much force and not enough form. The younger squires noticedâhe could feel their eyes. And he let them. Let them think him unhinged, because he was. He hadnât meant to go to the sept, not really, but heâd found himself walking that way anyway, as if his body had made the choice for him. And maybe it had. Maybe the only place quiet enough for what clawed in his chest was a place where the gods would judge him for it.
Or forgive him.
And still he climbed.
Each step felt heavier than the last, not from the weight of his armor but from the thoughts he couldnât shake. He huffed through clenched teeth, jaw tight, every breath a curse spat under his breathânot just at the day, but at the council, the kingdom, the way theyâd all spoken of you like you were a pawn to pass, and not a person to protect.
They talked down to you in that chamber, voices like knives masked as reason. Dismissed your voice. Laughed when you walked out. And when he tried to speakâtried to defend youâhis words were waved away like smoke.
âThe girl needs a match, not a sword at her side.â
âToo soft on her, Hightower. Mind your place.â
He shouldâve struck someone. Wouldâve, if it wouldnât have turned the council into chaos. And still⊠still it wasn't just rage in him.
It was you.
The memory of your voice still rang in his earsâlow, sharp, velvet-lined with fury. The way you held your chin high even when your father shouted, the flash of your eyes when you dared him to speak, and the way your lips pressed together when he did. And worse than thatâŠThe way youâd looked days agoâlaughing in the gardens, sunlight on your throat. The way your bodice shifted when you leaned too close over the council table, the curve of your spine when you turned from him. The way his hands burned just thinking of touching you there, right where silk met skin.
Gods forgive him, but he wanted you.
Not gently. Not chastely. He wanted you bent over something sacred. Wanted to ruin the pretty way you spoke his name. Wanted to rip open your perfect courtly life and give you something real. Someone real.
And fuck, he wanted it to be him.
He reached the giant wooden doors of the sept then, heart thudding like a drum in his chest. Somewhere between salvation and hell, that strange place only men with shaking hands and bad intentions find themselves. He wasnât looking for prayer, just some sort of stillness.
He just needed a moment to forgetâ And when he opened the door, there you were.
Your eyes drifted shut again, following the flickering light of candles behind them, letting your thoughts scatter. You sat still, unmoving, lost between prayers and wishes that the Gods would never grant you. But something shifted.
The silence cracked.
A low creak, the groan of weight against the septâs wooden doors and your eyes shot open. Hand braced against the wax-slicked stone, your spine straightened but you didnât turn. No one ever came this late. Only you. The wind slipped through the stained-glass slits, curling the cold against your exposed back with a heavy breath. Then came the dull thud of the doors shutting once more, not in a hurryâslow, deliberate, almost cautious.
A shadow moved. Long limbs, squared shoulders and a cloak trailing behind like spilled ink, all you could make out, a deep shade of green. You turned your head, just barely. Enough to confirm what your heart already knew.
Gwayne.
He stopped as though struck, frozen mid-step with one boot still lingering on the stone behind. His brows drew in, squinting at you through the dark, âGodsââ he muttered low, not even sure if heâd said it aloud or just in his mind. "I didnât mean toââ He swallowed the rest. And you turned fully, facing him with your body still folded low near the altar. He looked away quicklyâout of courtesy or control, you couldnât tell, maybe both.
"I didn't think anyone would be here," he added, voice rougher than usual. Tired from training, from the noise of council, from the ache in his arms and the deeper ache gnawing in his chest. He wanted to say more, but instead you offered a soft smileâmysterious, perhaps even merciful. "Neither did I."
There was a beat. A pause that wasnât quite silence, heavy and warm and pulsing like a held breath between them.Your gaze lingered on him, how his chest rose and fell like heâd been running. His hair was messy, lips parted, the faintest shadow of a bruise along his jaw. Whatever had riled him today, it clung to him stillâlike dust from a battlefield.
"Would you sit with me?" you asked, voice low, a whisper carved from soft stone.
His eyes finally met yours, then dipped lower. Slowly. With reverence and something else⊠something darker. They trailed over your face, your mouth, your bare shoulders where your nightgown hung low, down to where your hands rested in your lap. He nodded, eyes flicking back up to your own, though his legs didnât quite obey at first. And when he did move, it was cautious. Careful. As though getting too close might undo him completely.
He lowered himself beside you, bending at the knees as he settled on the floor, just close enough to feel. The coolness of the steel grazed your thigh and you gasped, and Gwayne pulled back slightly.
You laughed lightly, covering your bare skin with the silk, âMust you wear that all the time?â He only hung his head chuckling just enough it rumbled beside you. âIt is duty my Lady, if it were choice, mayhaps not.â The smile on his face crept into a smirk, tilting his head as he looked at you, the light bouncing off of his face and his eyes narrowed. Contemplating for a moment, âThough if I can ask, what brings you here at this hour. If you would like I could escort you back to your chambers?â You rocked your head back, slumping a bit where you sat as you let out a loud sigh, shaking your head a little, âIt wonât be needed, I only came here to breathe.â
âYou cannot breathe in your chambers?â He remarked, a certain cheek in his tone still, seemingly already knowing your reason, the meaning behind your escape, and you knew he did. Even in passing, heâd been just as against this whole ordeal as you, perhaps even more. Your hand slung out to gently push at his chest in protest, only meaning to be playful. But when you did, he winced slightly through his chuckle, and you noticeâ the way he rotates his shoulder like it aches, the way his jaw flexes and eyes stay forward. Heâs trying to be still. Proper. Holy.
But the air has already shifted and the light hits his chest plate just right.
âYouâre bleeding.â You murmur, catching sight of the thin line across his arm, just where the steel reveals his tunic.
âJust a scrape my Lady, nothing more.â He replies brushing it off as he runs a shaky hand through his hair, like he does with most things. Though he turns then, meeting your gaze and seeing your almost concerned expression his face softens, tightening again.
âA long day?" you ask, half knowing.
He huffs a bitter laugh, looking down at his gauntlets, âYou could say that. I got paired with a fool twice my size and half my discipline, swung like an ox. Took it all out on me.â His hands twitch as he starts to undo the leather bindings of his forearm guards, rambling as he does so, contemplating of doing such a thing in front of you, let alone here of all places. And you catch the way his fingers trembleânot from pain, but something else, something you canât quite read.Â
âHere,â you offer, cutting in as you see him falter a little, kneeling slightly behind him, hands already moving to the straps at his shoulder.
He flinches under your touch, and his breath quickensâjust barelyâbut then leans into it like a man whoâs carried too much too long.
âYou donât have to-âÂ
âYou came here for peace did you not,â you interrupt gently. âThen let me help.â
You work in silence. Strap by strap. Piece by piece. The pauldrons come first, your fingers grazing the hot metal where it meets his skin, then the chest plate, heavy and reluctant, slipping away to reveal the thin linen beneathâdamp with sweat, clinging to muscle, stained faint with bruises earned in the yard.
Your fingers linger a moment too long, tracing the lines along his chest where the shirt opens.
And he feels it.
He doesnât dare look at youânot yetâbut his breath stills all the same. Your touch ghosts over the edge of his collar, innocent only by inches but his mind twistsâprayer unraveling into want. Youâre too close. Youâve always been too close. And now, the scent of you is tangled with incense and smoke, your breath soft near his ear as you shift.
He swallows hard. Steel and cedarâthatâs what they say he smells like. But if you asked him now, heâd say he smells like sin. Like something barely held back. You notice him watching, youâve noticed before. In the yard. In the quiet. In the press of his hand against yours for a breath too long. Youâve imagined itâfantasised, even. The way his body moves, the strength in his hands, the tension in his jaw when heâs holding something back. The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips when he's deep in thought. Youâve seen it all. And maybe youâve wanted him to see you too.
Now, in the hush between words, his neck is craned at you, sitting there, more bare than before. You continue to face him, your voice quiet but unflinching.
âI know youâve looked,â you say. âSo have I.â
His breath catches, but he doesn't deny it. âIâve felt it,â you edge onwards, âsomething like fire beneath my skin. Iâve prayed it away. Washed it clean. And yetâŠâ You reach for him, let your fingers ghost over his shoulder carefully, dangerous as a curse.
âI used to wonder,â you whisper. "Wonder what?â he asks, voice lowâdarker now, as if part of him already knows. Your mouth is dry, but you say it anyway, beyond your pride.
âWhat it would be like. If you ever touched me⊠like I wasnât a nobleman's burden.â
His hands twitch and his jaw clenches, yet he still doesnât move. Gwayneâs eyes darken, raking over you with a hunger heâs tried so hard to bury under oaths and armor and obedience. But that armor between youâitâs scattered, cast aside on the floor.
âGods,â he breathes, the word falling from his lips like a plea, not a prayer. His hand liftsâslow, hesitantâuntil it cradles your cheek, his thumb grazing the softness beneath your eye. You feel how hard heâs trying not to tremble, as though touching you might break the last thread of restraint he clings to.
âIâve thought of you,â he admits, voice raw. âHere⊠in this very place.â He swallows, jaw clenched. âEvery time Iâve tried not to.â You donât speak or move, just breathing in tandem with him, feeling his forehead brush yours, hot and damp with want and guilt and all the weight of him. He lingers like that, caught in the torment of it, his nose brushing yours. And thenâhis hand slides down. Over the line of your neck, the shape of your shoulder, toward the hem of your gown, fingers hesitating as they ghost over the curve.
âDo you know what itâs likeâŠâ His voice is a whisper now, cracking under the weight of confession. âTo kneel in prayer, so hard, because you smiled at me the night before?â A quiet gasp escapes you, but you donât retreat, you only draw nearer pushing back into his touch ever so slightly.
His thumb moves to your mouth, dragging along your lips as though blessing them.âIâm not holy,â he murmurs, looking down to them. âNot with you.â
You look up at him, eyes shining in the candlelight. âThen donât be.â
That breaks him.
With a sound caught between a curse and a groan, his hands grip your waist. The gentleness doesnât vanishâit sharpens, becoming focused. Reverent still, but no longer afraid. He lifts you with surprising ease, hooking his hands up underneath your legs, bringing you chest to chest, setting you atop the cold stone altar. No words now, just breath, just movement. Your legs part slightly, and he steps between them, his hands bracing either side of your hips.
âGwayneââ Your gasp cuts the quiet. But his mouth is already on your neck, desperate and warm. His hands press into your thighs, pulling you to him. He kisses youâ dropping his head to the crook of your collarbone. Leaving a trail of kisses along the delicate skin there, the kind of kisses that make your back arch and your hands grip his shoulders. He grumbles something you donât catch, something low against your skin as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your gown slowly upward, inch by inch, as though revealing sacred ground. His lips follow downward, at your shoulder and down to your breast, meeting his hands at the round of your waist.
His prayers have turned carnal. And nowâhe worships you.
The neck of your nightgown falls revealing your chest as his hands work behind you, beginning to unlace the top with delicate fingers, before stopping himself, eyes flicking up to yours, parting from your skin. âAre you certain you want this?â He asks, the look in his eyes hungry but enamoured, as if, had he made the wrong move heâd lose you entirely. You nod, pulling him closer, arms wrapping around his middle as your legs push onto the backs of his own, the cold metal of his leg armour hitting your soft calves. âMore than anything..â And thats all he needs, and he is tugging at the back of the silk in one swift motion, down and down until it pools at your hips.Â
Gwayne stands before you, his eyes roaming over your body greedily, naked and bare in front of him, the cool air hits your skin and your cheeks flush, darting your eyes away suddenly.
 "You are beautiful," he breathes, reaching out to trail a finger along your jawline, tilting your chin just enough to meet his eyes once more. And without protest, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delves into your mouth, tasting you deeply. Slowly, reverently, he slides the straps of your dress down your hips and past your legs, letting it hit the floor atop his discarded chest plate. His hands trace your collarbones, thumbs brushing the tops of your breasts.
"Perfect," he rasps, cupping your breasts in his large hands. He kneads the soft flesh, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble under his touch. Leaning down, he takes one into his mouth, suckling gently and you arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.
His hands roam lower, and he groans at your moan vibrating your skin just enough, skimming over your stomach and coming to rest on your hips. He grips them firmly, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar, closer to him. Your hands go up to the opening of his shirt, undoing the worn buttons with ease, your fingertips gracing over the hard muscle and he stutters, pinching your thigh. Once it falls open, you push it off his shoulders, letting it rest at his feet. His torso is on full display, trousers hanging low on his hips, and the outline of his cock pushing at the seam. The blush on your face grows darker, and hands move without a thought tracing the defined lines of his abs. He shivers under your touch, a soft growl escaping his throat.
Gwayne's fingers dip between your legs, brushing against your slick folds through your underskirt, removing it gently, the mix of silk on steel, the only things between you, now gone. You gasp, hips jerking forward. "Soaked already, sweet girl?â he croaks, running a finger along your slit. "And ready for me."
He drags his fingers lower, slow and taunting, tracing the slick heat between your thighs until he finds your clit. A teasing, featherlight circle. Once. Twice. Just enough to make your breath catch and your hips twitch, chasing him. But he pulls back just slightly, his breath trembling against your neck as he watches you unravel. "Already," he mutters like a confession, like a man on the edge of something holy and wicked all at once. "You're already aching for me, aren't you sweet girl?"
Your only answer is a whimperâsoft, helplessâand he groans, the sound pulled from his throat like it hurts. Then he slides a finger into you. Slow, and deliberate. He curses under his breath at how tight you areââSeven hellsââhis voice ragged with restraint, and his jaw clenches like fighting off every thread of control. He begins to move itâgently at first, stroking that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and your head tips back, lips parted, the air thick with the sound of your breathing and the distant flicker of candles.
Your hips rock forward, seeking more, desperate, and he listens. Oh, he listens. He adds a second finger with a hiss between his teeth, and this time he curls them just right. "That's it," he murmurs, voice low and reverent, like he's praising you, and he is. "Take it, my girl. Let me hear you."
And gods, do you.
"Oh god," you moan, gripping the edge of the altar, one hand bracing his uninjured arm. He picks up the pace, fingers plunging deep and fast, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. Pants come from your mouth as he holds you, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
"That's it, let me hear you," Gwayne growls, fingers moving relentlessly. Your moans echo off the stone walls, mixing with the wet sounds of him finger-fucking you. It's filthy and erotic, stoking the flames of your desire higher. He keeps curling his fingers just so, stroking deep, slow, rhythmicâlike he knows your body better than you do. His palm grinds against your clit in maddening little presses, never rushed, never sloppy. He's watching you like you're a vision he was never meant to touch, and yet here you areâwet and open and pulsing around his fingers.
âThat's it,â he coaxes, lips brushing your jaw. âI can feel you fluttering, trying to pull me deeper. Gods, youâre everything.â You try to answerâtry to say his name, beg for more, anythingâbut the words dissolve into moans as your stomach tightens, that electric wave building fast and hard.
His voice drops to a growl as he leans in close, lips brushing your ear. âDonât fight it. Let go for me. Come on my fingers dearest.â
And thatâs itâthatâs what snaps the last thread of restraint. You cry out, body clenching around him as your climax rips through you. Your thighs tremble and your hands clutch his chest, fingernails biting into his shoulder where the armor has fallen away. Your walls pulse wildly around his fingers, drawing him in as he groans low and long, mesmerised by the sight of you undone. When your hips finally still and you collapse back against the furs, panting and trembling, he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth without breaking your gazeâsucking them clean with slow, deliberate reverence.
âSweetest fucking thing Iâve ever tasted,â he says, voice rough and ruined, all nobility long gone. And heâs still hard, still hungry. Still watching you like he's only just begun. The only sound is your breathingâragged and highâonly his eyes roaming your body, taking in the way you shake, the flush painting your chest, the way your thighs still twitch in aftershocks.
âYouâre not done with me,â you whisper, voice wrecked but daring, his gaze snaps back to yours. âNo,â he rasps, eyes dark and dilated, possessive. âNot even close.â Your fingers wrap around his neck, your voice lowering to a whisper, âThen stop holding back, Gwayne.â His jaw ticks at that, and you can see him fighting itâsee the knight warring with the manâbut then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open again, and his mouth crashes to yours, messy and hungry and real.
âIâve waited,â he says against your lips, voice low and shaking. âGods, Iâve waited for this. Thought of it every time you smiled at me. Every time you walked away, â Forehead against your own, your noses knock together and his eyes flutter shut, âBut I donât think I can be gentle anymore.â
âThen donât,â you breathe, abandoning every repercussion, just as he abandons duty, abandons his own oath. âI donât want gentle.â
With a choked sound, he guides himself to your entrance, pressing the head of his cock against your slick heat. The stretch is slow but then he grips your waist and pushes in with one firm, fluid motion. Your mouth falls openâno words, just a sharp gasp as he fills you, all of him, deep and claiming, your head resting at his jaw as it hangs low. âFuckââ he grits, buried to the hilt, voice barely human. âMade for me.â
And he lets go. He thrusts, deep and hard, knocking the breath from your lungs, swallowing your moan with a kiss so desperate it borders on violent. Thereâs no distance anymore. No restraint. Just Gwayne, skin against skin, body pounding into yours like he means to etch himself into your bones. âIâll never let anyone else have you,â he groans, voice hot against your neck, teeth bearing and messy. âYouâre mineâmine.â
âYes,â you sob, body trembling. âYoursâpleaseâdonât stopââ He doesnât. He fucks you like itâs a vow, like its sacred, like heâs finally found heaven and heâs never leaving it again.
His thrusts are steady but brutal, dragging along every swollen, soaked inch of you like itâs familiarânot soft, but worshipful in the filthiest way. Every time he pushes in, itâs like heâs sinking deeper into devotion, losing himself between your legs, in your cries, in the sacred ruin of your body under him. He pants against your mouth, words breaking apart like his restraint, knees pushing against the hard stone without a care in the world.Â
âThisâ this is what I wanted,â he grits through clenched teeth, fucking you int you, starved. âNot the throne. Not the title. Just you. Spread open and mine.â You whimper, hands clawing into his back, your body arching for moreâgreedy, like him. Your walls flutter tight around him, and he feels itâhis hips stuttering, his rhythm briefly faltering before he slams back in with a growl, brow knit in absolute, trembling desperation.
âDonât do that unless you want me to come,â he warns lowly, shaking, forehead pressed to yours. You cry out his name, not in warning, but in challenge. And he bites down on your shoulder as he fucks up into you harder, no finesse left nowâjust raw, maddened need. You can feel him unravelingâevery muscle straining, every breath hitching, trying to last, trying to give you every drop of what heâs denied himself for so long. But the rhythm gets sloppy, the only thing holding it together is the way he grits, âCome with meâY/N, love, pleaseâI needââ
One more thrust.
One more drag against that sweet spot inside.
And you're both gone.
The sound of them echoes through the roomâlow, ragged cries tangled with skin meeting skin, a frantic chorus of breath and the whispers of your name. The air is thick with it, humid and golden like honey under candlelight. He doesnât stop when he comes, he stays buried deep, shuddering, his whole body locked over yours like heâs shielding you. Not war, not fire, not gods or menâjust the truth of what you've done. What you are.
His forehead rests against yours once more, slick with sweat. His breath trembles as he exhales a broken sound, not a moan, not a word. Just a huff. Some soft, splintered echo of a man whoâs tried to be noble for too long and failed, at last, beautifully. Youâre trembling too, not just from aftershock, but from the sheer gravity of it. Your cunt clenches around him, feeling every twitch of him as you rest against his chest, his arm hooked around your back keeping you up. The weight of his body leans against you, the stubble burning you collarbone where his mouth pressed, the damp linen crushed under you hips. It all feels lived in. Not like a tryst. Not like a mistake.
Like home you werenât supposed to find, but did anyway.
âI should stop,â he whispers. Not moving, not pulling out. Still sheathed so deep in you his voice cracks. âI should let you go. I shouldâve walked away before Iâbefore I took you like this.â But he still doesnât move, his arms only tighten, and his mouth finds the side of your throat, fervently. âYou shouldâve,â you breathe, fingers in his hair, anchoring him. âBut you didnât, and I didnât want you to.â
And thatâs the truth of it, that continues to undo him because he knows itâs true.
He moves again. Not sharplyânot chasing a second high. Just slow rolls of his hips, like heâs trying to feel everything.Like he canât bear the thought of leaving your body yet. His lips drag across your jaw. âI love you,â he says, so low you almost donât catch it. âFuck, I love you, Y/N.â And you break. Not just from his words, but from the way he says them, like itâs the only honest thing he's said in years. Your hands clutch his back, pressing your mouth against his temple, and maybe you gasp something back that mightâve been âI love you too,â or maybe it was just his name.
Either way, itâs all Gwayne needs, because here? Here, he has you.
He begins to move with more purpose now, delicately through the shocks, but fierce. Like relearning your body after all these years of watching, waiting, aching.
âLook at me,â he groans, pulling back just enough to see your face. âI want to see itâI want to see you when you fall apart.â Your eyes are locked, pupils blown, and neither you look away, dragging every thrust into your g-spot so much it burns, the coil in your stomach reaching itâs edge. His hands smooth over your thighs dragging them around his waist, and he groans into your mouth. The tension in you coils like a bowstring, drawn so taut it quivers. He grinds deeper, harder, and your spine arches off the altar.
âGwayneââ
âIâve got you,â he growls, cupping the back of your neck, lips brushing yours as he thrusts again. âCome on, sweet girl. Take it. Take all of me.â And you doâwith a cry that tears from your throat, broken and raw, your climax washing through you like a tidal wave as your nails rake his back. Your walls flutter and clench around him, pulsing, demanding. He chokes on a sound, lost in the tight heat of you, buried so deep he forgets how to breathe. âFucking⊠godsââ he gasps, stammering into his release, shuddering hard as he spills inside you, rutting through it like heâs worshipping at the altar of your body, not the one beneath you.
For a long moment, neither of you moveâjust the sound of your mingled breath, the faint echo of moans still trapped in the stones above, like a secret the gods were never meant to hear. His weight is still on you, heavy and perfect, chest heaving against yours. Gwayneâs brow rests to your temple, his lips brushing just beneath your ear like a benediction.
ââŠAre you alright?â he murmurs, barely audible.
Your fingers twitch, still curled against his damp back and you nod, a soft noise escapingâmore breath than word. âYes. Yes, I justââ You give a breathless laugh, dazed. âI think you broke me.â His head lifts to look at you properly, eyes glowing like a knight kissed by sin, and reverence, and something close to forever. âThen Iâll spend the rest of my life putting you back together.â
Your throat tightens and his words settle in your chest like something eternal, something vowed. You cradle his jaw with one hand, thumb brushing his cheek.
âI love you, Gwayne,â you whisper. âI didnât mean to, not like thisânot all at once, not this much. But itâs already too late.â His mouth finds yours in a kiss that doesnât try to start anythingâit only holds. It's soaked in devotion.
âI loved you the moment I saw you dancing at court,â he says, voice thick. âAnd I hated it. Hated that you looked like sunlight and moved like a promise. I knew Iâd never get free of you.â
You smile and your eyes glow with softened heat âGood.â
He laughs under his breath, nudging his nose along your jaw. âYou ruin me.â
You hum. âAnd you ruin me right back.â
His arms gather you close, both of you still half-dressed, your body a mess beneath him, filled and flushed and fragile. But itâs quiet now. Still. Sacred.
Outside, the stained glass throws wild colors over the pews. Inside, the altar has been christened by bodies that know nothing of restraint when it comes to each other.
And for a little while longer, you just lay there. Breathing together. Holding each other like salvation, leaving one thing on your breath.
âThe gods will never forgive us.â
âThen let them watch.â
taglists for my babes ;) : @villainscharm - comment or ask to be added and I shall!
the trickster and the fool | loki (the sandman) x gn!reader
MASTERLIST
synopsis : trickster and risktaker. the thief and the fool. what are the differences?
a/n : omg foxbrandt reference?!?! and weâre backkkkkkk. this is lowkey angsty because iâm excellent at only two things; melancholy and spicy writing. enjoy!
rating : none
word count : 2.9k
content warnings : angst. mention of sex. toxic relationship. loki is a liar and manipulative per usual. thereâs no plot, just some character study.
There was something exhilarating about wooing a god.
Not just any godsâa mischievous one. Dangerous. Alluring. Seducing. The one that walks the Earth like it was made only just for him. His domain to reign. The one that whispers sweet nothing into your ears and makes empty promises before evanescing in the morning afterâlike always.
You didnât remember exactly when this has become a routine for you, a ritual. Once in every while, Loki would show up at your door, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in his hand and a box of small presents he got for you merely because it reminds me of you when I saw it, before casually slithering back into your life like he didnât leave a scar in your heart to carry until your next meeting.
You know it was a lieâalways a lieâbut you would also let him have it his way as ever. Telling or fooling yourself that his scheme wouldnât count as a successful deception if you were aware of it. Even though you knew the victory was his, not yours. Never yours.
It wasnât even a fair game. You were the one that was pursuing him first, and then he turned it into a game. And in all honesty, you should have seen it coming. After all, youâre not just a simple mortal. No, you are a Seer. An individual with an ability to foresee into the future. Thatâs how you came this far. Because otherwise, the god wouldnât have taken any interest in you at all.
Youâve always thought it was a gift, but now you see it as a curse.
You first met the God of Chaos many years back during a horse race when you were on a mission. Loki was in a disguise that day, cloaking as a tourist but still wearing his own face. He wasnât there just to see the race in his available time, he was there to bet. After all, a god couldnât help but to indulge a little bit in mortal games for some occasional enjoyment.
By the end of the day, the only bettors with the most wins were the two of you.
Loki, as ever the deceiver that he was, managed to alter his choices on the papers after the race was done, while you had already made the right choices before the game even started. You knew your ability could be handy at times.
âWhat an excellent premise you made,â the blonde approached you with a foxy smile. His tan coloured coat draped over his shoulders like a villainâs cloak.
You almost paid him no mind at that moment, thinking he was just a lucky bastard. There were a few once in every while. The ones that had always been unfortunate until the right moment came. You liked to think that fate enjoyed playing games with you mortals, pulling the strings cruelly like orchestrating a muppet show.
You turned to face him with a polite smile. âAnd you too, sir. Congratulations on your victories.â
âJust luck,â he shook his head with a humble laugh, but you could tell it wasnât authentic. âYours, on the other hand, is quite impressive.â
Now he was just being cocky, you had thought to yourself.
âThank you, sir,â you muttered curtly, making an effort to end the conversation there for your own good. But he didnât stop.
âIâm not easily impressed too, you know,â he added with a lower tone this time. Hands in his pockets as he stalked forward, his strides deliberate and confident. He stopped right in front of you, seizing you up considerately with his curious eyes for a few seconds. âYou bet all the right ones, and youâve certainly bet a lot. Thatâs a high risk, donât you think?â
You debated stepping away from the conversation without further explanations. You didnât owe him any, you told yourself. But you wanted to defend yourself first, before he started making accusations that could get you into trouble.
âJust like you said, sir. Luck,â you managed without showing any sign of disturbance.
He took another step closer, voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. âI couldnât help but to be curious. How did you flourish such victories?â he paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes just slightly. âI think Iâd like you to advise me how. And perhaps, Iâll tell you mine too. Over a few drinks on me.â
You were going to reject him when suddenly something glowed in his eyes. Not just figuratively but literallyâvisibly. A flash of a gleaming gold across his pupils. And you could tell just then that he was peculiar like you. Though not until later that night that you found out he was more than a peculiar, but a literal Norse god himself.
Thatâs how it started for the two of you. The Trickster and the Risktaker.
Loki gave you something, pleasure and endless possibilities. And of course, you wanted more. So you pursued, deeply and irreversibly fell into his trap. Not exactly his plan, but everything had fallen upon his favour.
As versatile as your power was, there was one limitation you didnât expect would ever come acrossâhim.
Loki, the God of mischief, chaos and fire, was an unpredictable being. Uncalculatable. Unforeseeable. He was the only creature or existence that you couldnât portend. You never knew when he would come or go, unless he already did. That was another reason why he kept you around for so long. Beside your rare and convenient capability, Loki also cherished the fact that despite all the knowledge in the world, you could never be able to read him. No matter how much youâve learned, how advanced youâve become. He will always be the sole deficiency on your board. And that alone already made it easier to manipulate you.
You lay on your side, curling up against Loki in your once shared flat in the middle of the city. There were a few quirks of being with the chaos god, one of them being his ability to warp reality and minds to his liking by just a flick of his finger. He gotânot boughtâyou this flat four years ago as an anniversary gift, with meaningless tales about how wonderful your future would be together inside of these walls. You really thought he was going to settle with you then, now you look at yourself and realise you were a fool.
The thief and the fool.
But that never stops you.
âYou know there are plenty of things people say about you. Among us mortals,â you trace lazy circles on his bare chest as you mumble, shear sweats coating from the aftermath of your reunited sex.
It has always been easy with him. No, for him. No matter how long he vanished, whether because he was distracted by other indulgence or being caught and imprisoned by Odin again, you would always welcome him back with open armsâpathetically.
Loki let out a throaty chuckle, the sound expectedly disinterested. âWhat can I say? Iâm a public figure.â
You hum, now tracing your finger along the line of his collarbone. A gold necklace worn around his neck, its charm resting below the hollow of his throat. The light from your bedside lamp catches on its shiny texture then.
The charm, the one you always love and despise at the same time, a small metal replicant of Rider-Waiteâs âThe Foolâ. Loki told you once it was a reminder of you, because he couldnât fully display how important you were for him for your own safety. Which was true, you knew this one.
Still, you never know how to take it from him. A compliment? Or an insult? Because, frankly, you feel both. It is both touching and humiliating. You believe Loki does that on purposeâto taunt and humiliate you.
You are a Seer, carrying one of the most powerful abilities in the universe. You know many things, see everything. And yet, Loki downplays your potential like itâs just an amateur skill. He makes you feel small and sometimes even useless. He makes you crave validation, starved for his approval. And devilishly, he relishes in it.
The game is more twisted than the sheets you two are currently laying on. And unfortunately, you never want to run away from it. You never leave this flat, never think about moving out after Loki disappeared for a year. You know heâd come back. He always does. It is the only thing about him that you are certain of.
You feel like a mouse in a cage, being placed on the wheel and running over everyday like a fool. Even though you know how it always ends, you never want it to stop.
After a few minutes passed, your silence was finally noticed. Loki turns to face you, resting your head on his warm chest. He gently strokes his thumb on your browbone, a small soothing gesture you always favour.
âYou want to tell me what theyâre saying about me? Or is there something you want to ask, hm?â
With that specific gentle tone of his voice, the sweetness of his kiss and touch, you can never truly stay aloof with him for too long. Well, perhaps it was a failure since the moment Loki knocked the door with a box of chocolate before dropping to his knees and pleading for your forgiveness with his artistry mouth on the heat between your thighs, all that before you could even get the chance to curse or slap him.
You shift slightly, turning to your side fully and meeting his eyes. No matter how long it has been, youâre never quite able to tell what colour they are exactly. Sometimes theyâre blue, sometimes theyâre green, sometimes in his mischievous moments theyâre gold. It suits him, you often think to yourself. Ever-changing.
âThey taught us in schools about Norse mythology. The realms. The Gods.â Loki observes you closely with his tender gaze as you carry on. âThey also talked about you⊠and your children.â
Loki laughs then, the sound rumbling from his chest. His lips curl into an amused smile. âAh, yes. My children. Thatâs your curiosity, I suppose. Where do I even begin?â
Despite knowing Loki for years, longer than youâd care to count, you know little of him.
Yes, he would stay up late, stargazing at the rooftop with you beside him, a half empty bottle of wine sitting nearby. He would tell you about all the tales heâd been, his glorious days and wicked achievements, but never his personal life.
You did mention to him once or twice about how unfair it was, because he knew everything about you even when you werenât telling him. But he would always brush it off and pretend it was only like that because you told yourself it was.
âMaybe start with how many. They say seven, is that true?â your brows raise.
He scoffs this time, shaking his head with a winced look on his face. âSeven is exaggerated. Iâve got six, love.â
âHoly hell. Six?â Your eyes widen in disbelief. Itâs not like you didnât expect numbers, but Gods, is that a lot? You thought the correct answer would be no more than three or two. After all, humans do love to overstate stuff for dramatic purposes.
âYes, six,â Loki nods in confirmation, his grin stretching. âA wolf, a serpent, a horse and a daughter whoâs halfway decaying.â
âA horse?â You frown.
âEight-legged, to be exact. Heâs a distinguished fella, that one,â Loki replied casually with a hint of humour. âI birthed him myself.â
The way your expression retorts with both bafflement and horror is uncontainable. âYou what? How?â
âLong story. For context I turned myself into a mare briefly. And the reason is something you donât need to be worried about,â Loki finishes with a sly wink, causing more goosebumps on your skin. Youâre sure you donât want to know now.
âDo you have any normal children at all? Like⊠regular ones thatâs not any kind of animal or whatever the last one is.â
Loki pretends to think for a moment, toying with you, before he answers. âTwo. Well, they were but now theyâre not. Because my sagacious brother turned one of them into a wolf.â
So, he really doesnât have a normal child, you think to yourself. âAnd the other one?â
âKilled by his wolf brother before his⊠internal remanings were used as as a tool to torture me in my eternal imprisonment,â Loki answers flatly without stuttering, making your eyes widen even more. You can tell he wasnât joking this time.
You bite the inside of your lips, unsure how to respond. Loki doesnât tell much about his personal life, but when he does he always manages to surprise you. âThatâs horrendous. Iâm sorry to hear that, my love.â
Oh, just how smoothly it was. Three days ago he was a selfish, heartless bastard. Now heâs my love.
Pathetic, you scold yourself.
âItâs not really,â Loki concedes, nonchalanty to your surprise. âOnce you get through it, thereâs not much left to grief. No point to. It was a punishment the universe agreed I deserved. And fairly, perhaps I did.â
You think about it, him in the underworld prison, being tortured endlessly by whatever was left of his son. It was horrid and inhuman. Perhaps it was the way of the gods. Though you believe Loki didnât truly deserve it. No one deserves to be punished by their loved oneâs entrails.
âIt mustâve been painful,â you murmur, gazing into his eyes. There is a muted hint of vulnerability in them. The kind that he tends to conceal frequently.
Loki knows youâre not talking about the physical pain itself, but the emotional one. You may not have said it out loud, heâs still well aware of your concerns for him. And he appreciates it no matter how aloof he wants to be.
âThatâs one of the main reasons why I escaped,â Loki hurls quietly. âBut, we all must move forward. We cannot sit still and mourn the loss thatâs already gone. It isnât how life works.â
âYou ever thought about having children again? The ones you will do everything to protect unconditionally. Your second chance.â
Loki laughs, the sound harsh and bitter to your ears. âMy dear, Iâve had plenty of chances and yet I never rectify. Pardoning myself has never been my most prioritised option.â
You regard him for a momentâthe masked emotions, his sourly words. Though before you get the chance to question Loki, he eventually clarifies his sentiments further for you.
âBut yes, Iâve thought about it. More than Iâd like to admit,â he drawls murmuringly. Almost bashfully. Loki cocks his head at the side, continuing. âYou want to know why I didnât? Because even if I do have them again, I know I can never truly protect them from what to come. Iâm the god of chaos. If Iâm not caught, someone else will have to answer for me. And they likely wouldnât survive the cause I started.â
He pauses briefly, tugging a loose strand of your hair away. âThat is why I donât let myself be closer to you than Iâd like. Because one day when they find out you are more than a mortal toy, their viciousness will not exclude you. And I will suffer this great pain again for the rest of my eternal life.â
You hold his gaze, examining him closely. His words, as warm and touching as they are, still leave you with scepticism. You can never truly read Loki. He is unpredictable, a compulsive liar. He woos with blandishments, pouring sweetener into your bitter drink and diluting the taste of his sore love like art.
You couldnât help but question his libretto. How true and honest it was. Another fabrication to make you believe implicitly? Are you that weak and desperate to buy it easily?
Unfortunately, you are. Thatâs the one flaw about youâyou love. Blindly and unrequitedly. Lokiâs a trickster and you are his fool.
âOne day, when everything is answered and I get the justice I deserve. When I am free from any obligations,â Loki adds with a discreet tone. âI hope the offspring I dream of will befall with you in the picture.â
Your heart skips a beat for a split second, breathing halts.
This time, you hear the genuineness in his eyes. The way he holds your gaze longingly and earnestly. It gives you a clarity of hope, real or false you donât care. You just want to believe so, even if itâs just for a moment.
You say no more, remaining verbally quiet as your mind internally wanders. Loki runs his hand down your spine, the tips of his rough fingers grazing along your damp skin. The motion is slow and steady, ever so soothing like late night lullabies. The two of you remain wordless for the rest of the night, before sleep comes to conquer your peace of mind. You fall asleep in his embrace, listening to the serene heartbeat of the God of chaos as you drift away to your dreams.
When the sunlight beams through the curtain next morning and wakes you up, Loki has already gone. And youâre not surprised. The other side of your bed is empty, wrinkled. The only trace left behind is the evidence of his lovemaking on your body and his unforgettable scent in your sheets.
There is something else as well. A letter sits next to the box of chocolate he brought with yesterday. Inside the envelope is his unmistakable handwriting, carrying another meaningless excuse and empty promise.
Urgent call. Iâll be back before dusk to take you out for dinner. Love â your dear inflamer.
You scrumple the message in your hand carelessly, and throw it into a bin along with the chocolate box.
how does Pinterest see you when you search: character, date, proposal, wedding, ring, love quote.
Thank you for the tag @schniiipsel. This made me smile. Took me a bit because I flipped flopped between Daemon and Aemond. Then from nowhere Michael with the steel chair.
I'm so late !! đđ«Ł but thank you for the tag, this was so cute <3
no pressure tags !! @snow-blower / @inkandarsenic / @sophieturnersdoppelganger / @siravalondulac / @fourthcrow / @hanrieeee and anyone else who sees this <3
Stop making the eyes at me, I'll stop making the eyes at you
Summary: you are a maid at Morpheusâ palace. You catch Lokiâs eye at the banquet and I think we all know what happens nextâŠ
Warnings: Loki being a bit of an arse, smut, reader constantly thinks of Dreamâs opinion not in a romantic way in more of a âholy shit I could get fired for thisâ way.
Author's note: this is the second reader insert fic Iâve written, the only reason I actually wrote this is the criminal lack of Loki fics on this app. Proofread once, badly, so expect random mistakes but other than that I hope you guys enjoy :)Â Â
Word count: 2074Â
You wove around the tables, dodging tossed food and jeering drunks. Where is Lord Morpheus? You wondered, surely he will not allow this madness to continue! Your face scrunched as you watched the people slobber all over each other. They are not really people, are they? You pondered, whatever they are, theyâre awfully rude.Â
Your eyes trailed to the aesir, Odin sat next to his son Thor, who laughed in an unbecoming way. No respect. They came to demand the Key to Hell yet none even pretended to care for the sanctity of the Dream Kingâs Halls. You barely dodged a pie that came your way.Â
âBegging your pardon, Milady,â Thor drawled. âThat was not meant for you.âÂ
âIf you could act with some decorum I am sure Lord Morpheus will appreciate it,â you said snidely.
âOf course, Milady,â Thor smirked. âI would never dream of displeasing the Dream King.â His eyes appraised you, taking in your figure. âYou are very beautiful, Milady.âÂ
The man next to him scoffed, he had blonde hair that was styled in a mohawk. He wore a leather jacket and leaned casually on the table. âI do not believe she is a lady, Thor.â He smirked. âMerely a maid.âÂ
Your eyes narrowed, âLoki,â you greeted him politely. The trickster, Dream had warned you about him. By his nature he would create chaos wherever he saw the opportunity and chaos meant fighting and fighting meant mess and mess meant⊠you would work overtime trying to clean. âI trust you are all enjoying your stay.âÂ
âOf course,â Loki chuckled. âLord Morpheusâ hospitality has been⊠exceptional and the entertainmentâŠâ his laugh sent shivers down your spine. An unfamiliar, tingling feeling, flickered throughout your body. Lokiâs pale blue eyes bore into you, as though he were trying to study your very soul. âExtraoridinary.â Â
âI will pass on the message,â you told him. With that, you turned on your heel and strode away. You swiftly exited the hall, âhonestly⊠so damn rude, the whole lot of them.âÂ
You took a deep breath, a headache was beginning to brew in the back of your mind. There was nothing to be done about it, you would have to wait for Lord Morpheus to make his choice. You tossed aside your apron and stepped out onto the balcony. The Dreaming was so beautiful. You closed your eyes and drew in a deep breath, calming yourself.Â
âAre you alright, dear [Reader]?â Gilbert asked you. âYou look rather distressed.âÂ
âLord Morpheusâ guests,â you sighed, turning to face him. âEach and every one of them is more disrespectful than the last. None of them even pretend to have a modicum of respect for him.âÂ
âAh,â he nodded, coming to stand next to you. âIt is not the disrespect to Lord Morpheus you are so upset about though, is it? They have been rude to you.âÂ
âIndeed,â you nodded. Glancing out at the scenery beyond, âI loathe them. None are worthy of the key to hell, only chaos will follow if he gives it to any of them.âÂ
âWell it is a good thing the decision is not up to us,â Gilbert said. âWe must have our faith in him. He will make the right choice.âÂ
âYou are more faithful than I,â you sighed softly. âI am afraid, Gilbert.âÂ
âThat is not unreasonable,â he nodded slightly. âIf you were unafraid you would be quite unusual.â  Â
âI suppose youâre right,â you agreed. âI can only pray Lord Morpheus will make the right choice.âÂ
~~~~
The next morning you were dusting cobwebs, humming contently to yourself. You were pleased with Lord Morpheusâ decision, giving the key back to God was wise. I never should have doubted him, you smiled to yourself, he is as clever as he is handsome. I should have known that he would make the right choice.Â
You stepped down from your small ladder, intending to head further down the hall when you turned around and found yourself face to face with the last person you wanted to see. Loki. His hair was in the same mohawk style it was in the night prior, but you made note of the fact he wore the same clothes you saw Susano-o-no-Mikoto wearing.Â
âLoki,â you greeted through gritted teeth.Â
âAh, the Dream Lordâs maid,â he smirked, his eyes running up and down your body in a predatory manner. âI must say you are much prettier in daylight.â He pressed a kiss to your hand, ânow wonât you do me the honour of sharing your name.âÂ
â[Reader],â you said, prying your hand from his and wiping it off. âDo not waste your time with false displays of⊠whatever that was.â You glared at him, âI was under the impression you were returning to your prison,â you said, taking a step backwards. As an afterthought you added, âand your wife.â Â
âYes, Sigyn,â Loki scoffed. âI am a god of chaos, ever changing and evolving but she⊠is rigid, stiff, completely set in her ways and nothing can persuade her otherwise.â His lips twitched in a smile, Loki pushed himself off the wall and sauntered towards you. âAs for my return, Lord Morpheus and I came to an⊠agreement.âÂ
âYou will be staying in The Dreaming?â You asked, frankly horrified. Your work would be so much more difficult if he remained. You paled at the thought of how much cleaning up you would need to do after a god of mischief plays tricks.Â
âNo, no,â he shook his head. âI will be leaving, I wanted to see you first.âÂ
âMe?â You blinked as he backed you into the wall. âWhy?âÂ
âWell you looked so delectable last night,â he said. âI had to return and⊠have a taste.â His hands grasped your waist and pushed you firmly against the wall.
âWhat are you talking about?â You asked, breathlessly. Your heart raced, you could feel the heat beginning to bloom between your thighs.Â
âOh donât be like that, darling,â Lokiâs lips brushed yours, his voice low and lustful. âYou know you want it. I saw how you were looking at me, with such a fire in your eyes.â  Â
âThe fire was hatred,â you spat. âI loathe when the Dream Lord has guests, they always make a mess for me to clean up.âÂ
âYour potential is wasted as a maid,â said Loki as he began pushing up your skirt. You did not stop him, you did not even protest. You wanted it, you would just never admit it to him. âYou could be so much more.â He rested his forehead against yours, âI could make you so much more.âÂ
âShut up,â you snarled, slamming your lips against his. He made a slight surprised sound as you tangled your fingers into his hair. It pleased you to ruin his hairstyle. It felt like retribution for the night prior.Â
âI did not expect you to have such a dominant streak,â Loki smirked against your mouth. âI am not complaining, of course.â He reconnected your lips into a greedy needful kiss. Your hand moved away from him and found the door handle, you pushed it open and dragged Loki inside the room. It was one of the many unoccupied bedrooms, the thought of someone already being in it did cross your mind, so you were glad to find it empty. You shoved Loki on one of the chairs and straddled his hips.Â
Loki ran his hands along your thighs and slid one beneath your skirt, toying with your panties. Your breath hitched as he pulled them out of his way and slowly pressed a finger inside you. âOhâŠâ you moaned softly, gripping onto his shoulders as he slowly fingered you, watching your expressions.Â
âYou like that?â He asked, nibbling at your ear. âYou are bedding a god⊠surely you want more,â you gasped as he slid a second finger inside without warning. Your eyes rolled into your head as his thumb pressed against your clit, moans forcing their way past your lips.
The act was surprisingly gentle, his fingers moved inside you at a languid pace, almost lazy. Your eyes flickered and you kissed him again, âI thought a god had more to give,â you said, dragging his lower lip with your teeth as you pulled away.Â
Loki withdrew his fingers, you made a slight whine of disappointment. He stared deep into your eyes as he licked them clean. âYou taste delectable, darling,â he said with a smirk. Before you could say anything he moved forward, forcing you to the ground. You gasped slightly as the air left your lungs, his fingers squeezed your thighs as he pushed them apart. âI must try more.âÂ
You threw your head back when he delved his head between your thighs, dragging his tongue along your slit. Your fingers tangled into his hair, nails scraping against his skull. He sucked on your clit, you had never felt so good in your life. You had had lovers in the past, yet none had ever pleased you as well as Loki was now. Yet your pleasure came with an undercurrent of guilt. What would Lord Morpheus say if he saw me now? You wondered, I am staining his good name by behaving in such a manner.Â
âWhere have you gone, sweet [Reader]?â Loki asked, prying you from your thoughts.
âIf Lord Morpheusâ catches us-âÂ
âDo not think of the Dream King now,â Loki chuckled, ânot while I am dining on this sweet cunt of yours.â He teased your entrance with his tongue, âfocus on me and only me.âÂ
âOh,â you gasped, rocking your hips against his mouth, desperately seeking more friction. âFuck-â you could feel your release slowly building, he devoured you like a man starved and your body sung from bliss. âLoki⊠Iâm close⊠ah- ohâ
âGood girl,â he praised. âScream for me darling.âÂ
His words combined with his actions send you over the edge, you threw your head back and arched your back as you came. Shockwaves running through your body as Loki licked it all up like a dog. Your chest heaved and legs shook as you slowly came down from your high. Your cheeks burned with shame, you never should have given into your base desires.Â
You sat up weakly, âwe should not have done thatâŠâÂ
âOh?â Loki smirked, âIâm not done with you yet, darling,â he pulled you into his lap and freed his cock. âI know you want toâŠâÂ
âI doâŠâ you confessed.
âIf Lord Shaper catches us, well⊠then you can come with me,â he promised, pressing kisses along your neck. âAnd we can be like this for as long as we desire.âÂ
You knew he was lying through his teeth. The only reason he was there with you now was to aggravate Lord Morpheus. âDo not lie to me, Loki,â you whispered. Lifting yourself up over his cock, âI would prefer cruel honesty, than beautiful lies.â You slammed yourself down without warning, causing him to moan loudly. You pushed him down onto his back, positioning your hands on his chest as you rode him.Â
His hands came to your hips, guiding your quick movements and helping you increase your pace. âYou are simply⊠perfection,â he gasped out. âSuch a perfect whore, just for me.âÂ
You placed a hand over his mouth, silencing him. âI prefer you like this,â you breathed. âQuiet.âÂ
His eyes flickered with lust as you tipped your head back from pleasure and ecstasy. Since you had silenced his mouth his hands pawed along your body, speaking for him. He was close, you could tell by how his cock twitched inside of you at the last moment you lifted yourself off of him and his cum spilled along your thighs.Â
You removed your hand from his mouth and rolled off of him, already setting about cleaning yourself off. âGood callâŠâ he panted. âI hate babiesâŠâ
You chuckled, âso do I.â      Â
âWell,â he drawled. âArenât we a match made in heaven?âÂ
You arched your brow, âI donât believe anything you do could be described as heavenly.âÂ
He laughed, âyes, youâre certainly correct.â He sat up, âwe must do this again sometime,â Loki told you as he kissed your neck. âYou are a good fuck.âÂ
âMaybe,â you smiled coyly, rising to your feet on shaking legs. âWeâll see.â You smoothed out your skirt and hair. âGoodbye, Loki.â Â
âFarewell, dear [Reader],â Loki cocked his head to the side. âUntil we meet again.â
summary : Gwayne and Alyssa were drawn to each other by a much deeper wound. The scars they shared and the past that embedded in their bones. In the world full of betrayal, judgment and familyâs expectations, they found solace in each other.
a/n : this has been in my drafts over five months bc i keep rewriting it and almost lost my mind.
contents : modern au. smut. angst. age-gap. (25&34) oc has heavy daddy issues (sheâs daemonâs daughter :0) as well as gwayne. just imagine everyone during S01E06. i kind of made up a few oc as her friends since alicentâs and rhaenyraâs children are still kids here. also daemon is viserysâ adopted brother.
playlist: the nbhd - fallen star / paramore - the only exception (duh) / arctic monkeys - i wanna be yours / taylor swift - maroon, dancing with our hands tied, so it goes, false god.
i just posted the final chapter omg that was such a high !!! idk how many people even read or hooked on it, but iâm really proud of it !
itâs not too smutty. more angsty than anything if iâm honest. i donât think there was a moment where my oc is happy, except when sheâs with him lmao.
itâs a modern au, the oc is daemonâs and rheaâs daughter. so itâs cliche in the background, but i tried not to make it too typical. and i hope i did a good job in a way. <3
âmine, in every version of the story.â 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 arenât dating him- not necessarily, he doesnât date, not in the way others would understand it. He coils. He takes.. but heâll 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 doesnât want to hurt you. He wants you haunted by him. Touched in places no one else can name. Softened. Unmoored and made beautifully unhinged. Heâll let you think heâs being kindâ a warm bath, a moonlit picnic, a whispered âIâm hereâ after days of silenceâbut look again.
Youâre not in your bed. Youâre not in your world. Youâre not alone.
The pet names are layered and sometimes somewhat ridiculous, ever changing at that; âMy desecrationâ, âLoveâ, âDarling hereticâ.. "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 donât just get a âbabyâ, you only get riddles in the shapes of names.
He hates boredom. So if you seem too... settled? Heâll 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 youâll react.
But gods help the one who hurts you. Heâll dismember them with a grin, his hands stained and his voice sugar-slick:
âYou belong to me. Not them, as I do you.â
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 himâdeeply, quietly, behind the illusionsâis when you donât look. When your gaze lands elsewhere.
When your fingers trail over someone elseâs wrist for too long.
He doesn't show it. Not directly, but he goes cold. Still. A little distant.
Until finallyâ
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, âWhat is it?â
He leans in close, fingertips pressing the white tile, eyes glistening but voice controlled. âYou used to look at me like Iâd hung the stars, now you barely look at me when I walk in the room. Have I become.. ordinary?â The question punches at your chest, and you blink. Once, twice. You rise slightly, water dripping from your arms as you cup his face.Â
âNo,â you whisper. âYouâre the curse in every myth. The echo in every temple. You are never ordinary.â His throat bobs and his lashes lower. You press your lips to his cheek, then down to his jaw. âI donât always say it,â you murmur. âBut I watch you like Iâm starving. Even when youâre not looking.â
He lets out a breath, like that was what heâd been waiting for.
Then his voiceâquiet, raw:
âSay it again.â
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. âTo keep things interesting.â 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 canât get enough of it. But just as frequently as he lies, when he tells the truth? Itâs tender, almost painful. âI love you, thatâs the problem.â
DARKER TIDES â POWER, POSSESSION, & A GODâS 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 youâre 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 doesnât 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 isnât always that dramatic, but itâs rare he isnât, but one thing is for sure, youâre 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. âDonât you dare become ordinary.â He hisses once when you mentioned something of still, a new house maybe it was. It wasnât 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 isnât your average âgood boyâ energy no. He wants you to curse his name as you fall apart around him, to praise him like itâs blasphemy.
âSay it,â He snarls fucking up into you, âTell me what Iâam to you.â Youâre 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.Â
Much akin to worship, as much as he revels his name on your lips its nothing if he didnât 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 thighsâ on your neck. At your ankles and your shoulder, anywhere he can to put his own claim. His teeth are always too sharp, and youâre 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. Heâll change his shape mid-thrustâtongue shifting, his eyes are glowing and his voice now echoes around you, ringing in your ears. You never quite know who youâre touching, but you always know itâs him, no matter the form. Sometimes he shows you versions of yourself: you begging, breaking, laughing manically. He whispers to you in a taunt, âThatâs who Iâll make you.â 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 himselfâ its you. You are his love, his own ruin, hurting you, if it isnât 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 wonât 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 âI know darling.âÂ
Heâs an exhibitionist, living to show you off, as well as himself of course. Heâll press you against stained-glass windows in temples that donât know your name. Heâll ruin you in dreams where gods are watching, perhaps the Lord of the Dreaming himself and he knows it . He wants to be caught. âLet them see,â he roars against the shell of your ear. âLet them weep for what I get to have.âÂ
When heâs jealous, the sex gets mean. Not cruelâ but sharp. Intentional. Heâll pin your wrists, fucking you deep and slow, taunting:
âDid they touch you like this? No, they couldnât. Youâd still be screaming their name if they had ever dared.â
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 itâs a silver dagger, sharp and sleek that glints in the light. Heâll 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 youâre 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.âThere, now come. Rest on me.â Heâll lie beside you in silk sheets that werenât there ten seconds ago, one hand tangled in your hair, and murmur things like:
âYouâre the only one whoâs ever seen me like this.â, âYouâre mine now. I wonât let the world have you.â
âSleep. Iâll keep the nightmares.â And he does.
Some softer things I believe between you two, that only youâd 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 wouldnât forget.
One day he gifts you a crown of illusions, stating that, âIf the world will not worship you, then I will bend the world.â 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.
Heâll kiss your scars like theyâre 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, âEach oneâs a secret. A story. A spell etched on your body. Iâve read them all.â
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. Heâd 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. âThey hurt you, I hurt them worse.â He pauses and dons that wicked grin, the blood disappearing from the both of you as he kisses you, pulling back just enough.Â
âI saved their tongues though, in case you wanted to hear them beg.â
He sees everything. And he knows when somethingâs wrong. Youâre smiling, but your hands tremble in your lap, or the smile doesnât 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.
âYou smiled wrong,â he says without turning.
âWho hurt you?â And when you finally tell him, softly, shakily,
he doesnât 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 doesnât exist.
Heâs cooking eggs (more like burning them, hilariously), wearing nothing but a linen shirt, and you come up behind him kissing his shoulder. He doesnât say itâs a dream. Instead, he lets you believe, even if just for a little while, as he closes his eyes backing into your touch.
âYou said you wanted peace,â he says, eyes unsure. âI tried.â Even if he doesnât know what that is, sometimes he wishes it too.Â
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 heâd 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 pocketâthings you donât 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.
âYou are not my thing,â he says.
âYou are my weakness. Thatâs worse.â
Then he kisses you so gently you forget what you were angry about.
Loki doesnât 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.
summary: gwayne returns to oldtown after two weeks away from his wife. too desperate for her taste and touch, he joins her in their chambers in the darkness of night.
warnings: oral (f!recieving), small mention of blood, gwayne is a munch and the armor stays on, tiny little bit of religious themes, not a lot of dialogue. mdni.
notes: this is literally just him eating out his wife. also i tried to make a hightower divider but it turned out ugly so you're just getting a line
word count: 1.6k+
Lonely nights were to be expected for the wife of a knight. You often found yourself retiring for the evening alone, with nothing but the echoes of your husband's presence to keep you company. It was not an entirely miserable affair. Loneliness made the heart grow fonder, and the moments between you were all the more sweet for it. Your marital bed had molded to the shape of his weight, a small dip ever-present on his side. Sometimes, if you truly focused, you could imagine his warmth still clinging to the sheets, as though he had only been gone for a moment and not a fortnight.
You did worry for your husband when the isolated nights drew long and silent. You had faith in him and the gods you were so devoted to. Gwayne was as good with his sword as he was his words. He had never once failed to return to you in one whole piece.
Slumber welcomed you with open arms, and your mind rested on the thought of seeing him soon.
The Hightower was cloaked in moonlight as the night dragged on. It was silent, save for the fluttering of curtains of the window you had left open. The cool air nipped at your throat, but it was the gentle clack, clack, clack of steel that roused you. It was a sound you had grown to know quite well â the sound of armor. Your fists clenched the silken bedsheets below you, and your eyes remained squeezed shut. Your heart fluttered, a light and airy thing within the confines of your ribcage. Gwayne had returned far earlier than what was expected. You waited in silence, feigning sleep as you did so, and anticipated the sound of shedding armor and the shift of the mattress as his weight met it.
Only, those sounds never came. You could feel his soft breath against the nape of your neck, and his fingertips - hands freed from his gloves - tickled your skin as he brushed your hair over your shoulder. Your back was facing towards Gwayne as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck, and you could not stop the breathy sigh that escaped your lips.
A knowing smirk spread across his lips. Gwayne knew his wife far too well for her liking â he knew you had not been sleeping, your breaths too quick for such a thing. His mouth traveled lower, down the slope of your shoulder that had been exposed by the slip of your shift. He gripped at the quilted duvet that covered your form, inching it lower and lower as he went. His final destination was on his knees, hands grasping at the softness of your hips. The soft fabric of your shift bunched around his fingers, wrinkled from your slumber. Your body, now exposed by the lack of bedding and practically glowing in the moonlight, shivered beneath his gaze.
âWhat are you doing?â Your voice was a hushed whisper, hoarsened from your rest.
âWorshipping my wife.â Gwayne's voice was smoother, rich with a lilt that made your tummy flip. His hands smoothed up and down your calves. âAs she deserves.â
The time apart from you had left him needy and hard within his breeches. His nights had been spent similar to your own when time allowed it, dreaming of the warmth of your skin, and the taste of you on his lips. Gwayne had foregone the task of ridding himself from his armor and swordbelt, favoring the sweetness between your legs.
His wrists wrapped around your ankles, his thumbs brushing over the delicate bone beneath the skin, and with a practiced ease, he tugged you closer to the edge of the bed. The sheets ruffled beneath you, and a little yelp of surprise slid past your lips. Gwayne's strength never failed to arouse you, even with the years you had known him. It was such a simple thing. He gazed up at you from beneath tousled strands of copper hair, his gaze locked on your own. His mouth found the inside of your knee, trailing open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of your inner thigh.
Your chest heaved, one hand reaching down to thread through his locks as you propped yourself up on your elbows. With the growing pit of warmth in your core, and the abundance of wetness pooling in your smallclothes, you found your voice. âHow⊠how was your journey?â You sounded breathless, still trying to bring your concern for him to light.
âLong,â Gwayne answered simply. He nipped at your soft skin before he soothed the bite with his tongue. He switched to the other thigh, coating it with kisses and licks and nips. âIt was a laborious affair,â he spoke between breaths, âand quite dull in nature.â His head dipped closer to where you needed him. You could hear him inhale deeply, heat of embarrassment rushing to your cheeks and neck. A playful scold died on your lips as his mouth met your cloth-covered cunt. He placed a kiss upon your clit, and he groaned at the wetness he could feel through your smallclothes.
âGwayne-!â
The fabric was shimmied down your legs with a swiftness that left you gaping. His hands grasped at your hips with a need that was unbecoming for a man like Gwayne, and he tugged you ever closer. Your thighs were thrown over his shoulders, his pauldrons digging into the soft flesh. You shivered at their coldness, your grip in his hair tightening. With the lessened proximity, you could smell him. âYou reek,â you announced breathily, âof horses and steel and⊠blood.â
âNot mine own.â
Gwayne's head of red hair disappeared beneath your shift, his tongue delving between the slick folds of your pussy. His hands gripped at your hips, stilling the way they threatened to twitch and buck. He flattened his tongue, lapping through your slit and savoring the familiar taste of you. His eyes fluttered shut as the tip of his tongue circled your clit, feeling the little bud throb and swell. His lips closed around it, encouraged by the whines that you made, sounds that made his cock twitch with need and greed. He suckled on it gently, moaning against your cunt as your thighs clamped around his head. Any thoughts of worry for your husband had been placed on hold, pleasure curling in your gut like a spring about to snap. His mouth moved with practiced ease, born of the many nights spent together.
âGods, you're so-â you choked on a moan, tugging on his hair to keep him close, âtoo good. Too good, husband.â
Gwayne sucked and licked, his tongue circling over your entrance before he pushed it inside of you, lapping at the depths of your core. His nose nudged against your pearl, and the hands upon your hips had tightened, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your thighs trembled on either side of your head, your noises growing in pitch and volume as he fucked you with his tongue. Unable to stand the ache in his loins, Gwayne moved. His hips rutted against the mattress like a dog in heat, the featherbed creaking in time with his rhythm. The grip he held on your flesh had loosened, arms wrapping around your thighs to lift your weight off of the bed.
With a squeal of pleasure, both of your hands found purchase in his hair, and you rocked against his face. Gwayne whined against your cunt, encouraging your movements as his hips began to stutter, nearing his own orgasm.
âGwayne, I'm-â the warning died on your tongue, and with a particularly firm suck on your slickened clit, you threw your head back with a shout. Your husband eagerly drank up your release, working you with his mouth until you were shaking and whining. With one final thrust, and a sharp grunt, he spilled himself within his breeches.
Gwayne felt your body grow pliant, melting into the bed as your thighs grew lax upon his shoulders. He pulled back from between your thighs, your hands slipping from his hair. A languid grin grew across his wet lips, his chin coated in spit and your slick. âThat was quite enjoyable, wife.â
You flung an arm across your face, shielding yourself from his view as you tried to catch your breath. The kiss he planted to your thigh had your legs jolting again, and you could nearly see his grin widen in your mind's eye. His touch, gentle and firm, slid your thighs off of him, and settled you back into your previous place in the bed. You could hear the clinking of plates of armor as he rose, and the subsequent shedding of those layers before you slid your arm away. You watched Gwayne in silence as he undressed, eyes honing in on the stain of his breeches. The light filtering in through the window offered just enough to see.
âIt seems you have missed me dearly,â you teased - or tried to, if it weren't for the breathlessness of your words. Gwayne turned to you then, and his gaze softened. Stripped down to his tunic and trousers, he cradled your face in his hands as he hovered over you.
âAs always, my sweet one.â His lips met yours in a dance as old as time. It was wet and filthy, it was slow and sensual. Gwayne sighed softly as your hand slid into his hair again, carding through his copper locks. He broke the kiss to gaze down upon you, a string of saliva still connecting your lips. His touch was reverent, as was the look in his eyes, as he brushed a wayward strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead. âIt would be wise to get comfortable. I am nowhere near done with you after such an arduous time away.â
revenge and punishment (part 2) | loki (the sandman) x f!reader
MASTERLIST â ౚৠpart one
summary : following the event in the library, you later realised the god of mischief had also tricked and stolen from your lordâs library as well while you were distracted. since it was your job to secure the documents, it would be your responsibility to bring it back.
a/n : can you guys tell iâm having sm fun ????
word count : 3.2k
warnings : smut. mdni !! p in v sex. unprotected sex. hate-sex. riding. dirty talk. choking. bondage (again!). breeding kink if you squint. slightly dom!reader (i mean it when i say slightly). probably some typos.
It didnât take long for you to realised something was seriously fucking wrong the moment Loki vanished.
It also didnât take long for you to realised that you were fucked up.
A book. Heavy, thick spine and crusty cover, containing formidable knowledge. It was what he had stolen from the library when you were too busy getting distracted by his majestic dick. You cursed yourself repeatedlyâpractically banging your forehead against the shelf as if it could return everything.
You wouldnât be too ashamed to inform Lucienne or Lord Morpheus that the trickster god had stolen something from the Dreaming during his stay if it wasnât because you didnât exactly have a good reason to save yourself. You could say he tricked youâbecause he didâand redeem yourself by going after him as you should. But as your Lord demanded an explanation from you, you realised he definitely knew more that he let on.
You prayed in your head (whether he could hear it or not) that if he knows something, please do not mention it out loud. Or else you would actually condemn yourself to hell without the necessity of his authority.
So here you were, standing in the waking world with an absolute rage boiling inside of you.
For this was your responsibility, you had no choice but to come alone, cleaning after the mess. Thankfully, Lord Morpheus gave you some guidance on where Loki might be before you left. You tracked down the streets for almost two hours before you finally found the tricksterâs hideout and barged in without any care.
âWhere is it?â You barked ahead, the door swung open forcefully.
In the middle of the room sat the God of Chaos, lounging over the sofa in all of his gloryâa black satin suit jacket over his shoulders, his blonde hair slicked back and a faint shadow of eyeliner around his eyes. As though he had been waiting for you.
And in truth, he had. In the past few days.
âWhy, come on in, little librarian,â Loki gestured a hand out, welcoming you in. His face lacked any remorse, instead a wide grin crossed proudly on her face. âI was just wondering when I will get to see you again.â
You didnât answer his question, just stalked your feet forward almost menacingly. Anger raged hot in your eyes as you demanded an answer from the god.
âI asked you a question, Loki. Where. Is. It.â
The god gave you a clueless look at first, pinching his brows at you. âWhere is what, my dear? Have you lost something? Oh. Please, donât tell me itâs your virginity. Although judging from our last encounter, I doubt it is.â
If violence was not the answer, then why were you so tempted to slap the smug fucking look out of the bastardâs face so badly?
âDonât play coy right now, Loki. You know exactly what Iâm talking about,â you spoke through gritted teeth. You were now standing in front of him. âThe book. You stole it.â
âAh, the book, eh?â He cocked his head to the side, lips pulling into a wide smirk. âCome on, darling. Itâs just a book, and I only borrowed it. Isnât that what libraries are for? Other than the good use we put it last time.â
The more he spoke, the more you wanted to shove your fist into his mouth. And you hated how the images only brought redness to your face. Although your ire was so strong that you couldnât even tell the difference.
âYeah? Well, your due date is over now, bastard. Give it back,â you said firmly, handing your palm out in his face.
At your command, he raised an eyebrow. âWith that tone? Come now, sweetheart. Havenât we been here before? In the presence of a god, you must ask nicely. I am to be pleaded and begged, not cursed.â
âYou lied and stole from me,â you were glaring at him now.
âWouldnât be the first time,â the god rolled his eyes, leaning back into the cushion with his arms spread out. âBesides, it was you who fell into my trap. I barely did anything.â
You ignored his provocation, shoving the images and guilt away from your head. Though not before cursing yourself.
âGive. It. Back,â you ground your teeth. âOr I swear, I will chain and drag you to the punishment myself.â
âOh, swear it, please,â his eyes gleamed with mischief. âThereâs nothing more delightful than to be chained and punished by a gorgeous thing like you.â
You couldnât take it anymore. Your patience snapped as you lunged forward, grabbing his collar harshly and shoving him back into the seat.
âI will not lose my head because you couldnât keep your hands to yourself, Loki,â you grunted. It had a double meaning and you only realised it afterwards. But you didnât care. Damn him.
âDarling, if you lose your head. Iâll be happy to give you one,â Loki winked, voice smooth like silk. His unserious nature only irked you more.
Your fists tightened around his collar, eyes burning rage and something you couldnât quite sure. âDonât push your luck. You already have little of it and I wonât be nice anymore. Give the book back.â
Despite your rage, you couldnât help the sensation that was building inside of you. With him underneath you, his eyes boring back at you with challenge and your hands around his neck. It stirred something dark in you. The need to take control. The need to devour him and make him the one beg for you this time. And you wanted it. You craved to be the one with upper hands this time.
Unfortunately, he could feel it too.
âYouâre trembling, little librarian,â Loki whispered, voice deeper and quieter than usual. His hazy gaze flickered across your face, drinking in the fire in your eyes down to your lips. âAnd I donât think thatâs fury.â
Your knuckles turned white. âYou donât know anything.â
Lokiâs lips curled into a knowing smirk, narrowing his eyes at you. âI know a lot of things. I am a god of fire, remember? And that heat radiating from you, my dear, is nowhere near rage or hatred at all.â
You wanted to punish him. Gods, you aggravatingly wanted to. Your hands pressed into his throat, the pressure tightening his air pipe. Loki let out a small grunt, low and suppressed. But he did not look anywhere near suffocated. No, the expression on his face said it all.
But instead of holding backâyou lost it. Out of anger, out of spite, lips crashing onto him without hesitation. Your teeth immediately clattered against his as he gave in, tongue sliding into your mouth with ease.
It was almost too easy, too natural. And you despised it. Gods, you really did. One hand loosened its grip on his collar and moved around his neck, squeezing him softly just enough to cut his air.
âGods, I should have reported you. Hand you back to my king and have you locked up into your eternal punishment for what you have done.â
His voice came out softer than expected, a feigned look of innocence in his eyes. He looked like a wolf in sheep clothing. âYou would be cruel to me?â
âI would offer more than cruelty to you, Loki,â you rasped, tearing him down with your eyes. You felt his hand at the back of your neck, holding you almost too gently. For a moment you almost gave in.
âThen do it,â he murmured. âOffer me anything youâd like. I will be your willing subject tonight if it pleases you.â
And just like that, the fire behind your eyes darkened. Your free hand raised in the air and with a snap of your fingers, an invisible force pulled his wrists behind his back before a rope came to tie around them. Loki gave you a questioning look, silently asking how you did thatâbecause to his knowledge, you had no magic.
You reached for a silver lace around your neck, tugging it out to display with your thumb, a pendant of an ancient symbol glistening under the light. âA gift from Lord Morpheus. In case you play unfairly.â
The grin on his face seemed to only widen. As if he was satisfied to know that he could not be trusted. He was, after all, the god of mischief. âI should thank your lord for being so thoughtful.â
âYeah, maybe you should. After I draw every chaos you have left from your system.â
Your lips reconciled with his, deep and aggressive. Your nails dug in the skin of his neck, leaving red half moon marks behind. Loki didnât seem bothered nor struggling, not in the slightest. He was enjoying when he wasnât supposed to.
His response to your heated, hatred kiss only fuelled the fire. It unnerved you the most. This was supposed to be his punishment, not his pleasure. Your grip around his throat tightened more, his Adam's apple bopped underneath your palm.
âDo not enjoy this,â you warned, voice dark matching your eyes.
He responded with a provoking look. âHard not to when itâs you ruining me.â
He was aggravating. Maybe you should gag him next. But that would mean you wouldnât be able to kiss his aggravatingly delicious lips. He was already rock hard down there. It didnât take long before you slowly unzipped his pants. The sound of it only added into his arousal. Your hand slipped past his waistband then, and Loki sucked the air between his teeth as he felt your touch.
You werenât sure about making this a punishment anymore when you finally sank onto his cock two minutes later. Loki threw his head back with a deep gruntle, feeling the warmth that heâd missed greeting his cock.
With you straddling his thighs, fully on top of him both physically and emotionally in control. You were the one with all the cards this time. You took a chance and bit his bottom lip, the familiar taste of copper on your tongue. Loki groaned at the feeling, hips thrusting against yours to gain more pleasure. But you pinned him back, one hand firmly against his shoulder. You continued to grind against him more, slow and deliberate, feeling his length sliding into your soaking walls perfectly. It was driving him crazy, your movement. And he wanted more.
Loki tried to untie himself, shifting underneath you with struggles. But every time he tried, the rope tightened and burned his skin. He grunted at the pain with frustration, seeking your lips again as you moved away.
âYou can keep trying and pain yourself, trickster. Heaven knows not to let the spell break that easily,â you taunted.
âHmm. Maybe I do like the pain.â
You huffed in annoyance. âI donât wonder.â
But before the god could retort, youâd already yanked his head backwards, fingers curling at his blonde hair tightly, earning a sharp gasp from him. You surged forward for his lips again, devouring his sinful mouth as though it was the first finest fruit youâve ever tasted.
He looked pretty like this, you thought. Completely lost of power, entirely at your mercy. It was a look that suited the god of chaos more than you would imagine. You didnât speak for the rest of the fucking. There was no need to. You also started to feel like failing since you could no longer feel your anger anymore. What was the purpose of coming to the waking world again? To find the book that was stolen? Or finding the said thief and fucking the living soul out of him?
Your hips rolled in the way that made blood hot in his veins, cutting out all of the smart comebacks. Loki let out a low groan, wiggling underneath you with struggles to gain back his dominance. He wanted to touch you again, needed to feel that familiar warmth of your soaking pussy squeezing him every time he whispered lewd words into your ears.
But he wouldnât get that, not easily. Youâd make sure he would not.
âI fucking hate you,â you murmured against his lips, rocking your hips at a steady pace. âI hope you know that.â
He laughed, darkly and taunting. âOh, I know, sweetheart. I can feel your hatred soaking my cock as you take me in deep right now. Believe me I know.â
âFuck you,â you cursed him with a broken voice.
His lips widened into that irritating, vicious smile that always undid you. âYes, darling. Fuck me. Use me. Iâm all yours.â
Gods, you were losing your control over his submission. And that shouldnât happen. You were supposed to be crossed with himânot wanting to kiss him.
âYou lied to me.â Your hand squeezed his throat ever so slightly once more. âYou tricked me. Used me and stole from me.â
The pressure from your hand around his neck increased occasionally as a reminderâa threat. And every time you did it, his cock would always twitch inside of you.
Loki chuckled through the grunt, very much unbothered by your ire. His wicked gaze peered through his golden lashes. âAnd Iâd do it all over again if this is your form of punishment.â
Fuck, he was asking for itâyour wrath. You wanted to crawl your nails on his skin, drawing pain and scars from his godly body.
âDoes that feel good? Using me.â Loki let out a throaty moan, watching the way your eyebrows pulled together in pleasure. Your cheeks red from rage and desire.
You squeezed your eyes shut, not looking at him as you croaked through your breathless pants. âShut up for once, will you?â
He knew it did. Of course, the bastard knew. Because why wouldnât he? The evidence was there to see.
âI bet it does. Putting all of your ire into fucking me. Must feel good to be the one in control this time,â his velvety voice sent a chill down your spine, hot breath fanning your cheek.
But for some reasonâan obvious reasonâit didnât feel like you were the one who had it under control. It was still him. He demanded control, even at the weakest moment.
The hand on his chest slipped down to the aching bud between your legs. You rubbed circular motions over the bundle of nerves, driving yourself closer and closer to your climax. Lokiâs mouth agape at the sight of you pleasuring yourself on top of him. Fuck, he wanted to be the one that touched you so bad, to brought the highest sensations to you like last time.
The god straightened his posture, angling himself up for you to use him more just right. You cried when the tip of his cock hit just the perfect spot inside of you. Your hips sped up, riding him harder and faster to your needs as your climax approached.
Loki cocked his head slightly, eyeing you up and down with his hungry gaze, unable to touch you as he wished. The feeling of your inner muscles clenching him was enough to make his eyes roll back, blood rushing hot through his veins.
âFuck, darling. Are you sure this was supposed to be a punishment?â The blonde raised his brows at you tauntingly with a smirk.
Your grip tightened around Lokiâs neck again, as if it could ever help humble him. âI said shut up.â
This time the god didnât dare to counter, only leaning back against the cushion with a sharp breath as you rode him more desperately. You missed the way his hands would gilded up your skin, feeling your breasts in his sinister palms or pulling you in for an aggressive, devouring kiss.
âUnleash me,â Loki said after a moment. Not quite a demand, not quite a plea. More like a dark whisper in your ears as you were about to sinâsuggesting, seducing. âAnd Iâll make you sure you feel as good as you deserve.â
You shouldnâtâyou really shouldnât. But you were also too desperate, too weak. No, he would not get the satisfaction this time. He didnât deserve it, you reminded yourself.
âNo chance,â you replied, frustration in your voice. âYou think you can trick and still touch me?â
He didnât answer right away. Instead, Loki brushed his lips over your jaw, licking wet stripes along the nape of your neck. Your walls reacted instantly to the feeling, head thrown back to give him more accessâto your disappointment.
âYou know you want to,â Loki continued. âDonât you miss it? My hands at your hips, keeping you in place as I fuck my cock up into you, spilling my cum inside of you.â
Fuck, you were so close. He could practically smell it too. The way your lustful eyes looked down at him as though you had all the power in the world.
âDo you want it?â Loki asked promptly. âMy seeds inside of you. Unknown if it would ever plant or grow. Dangerous, is it? Fucking an otherworldly like me. A symbol of deception and unreliability.â
âGods,â you moaned as you felt the pleasure increase at his lewd words once again. It was always like this. Him and his forbidden mouth. Always the best tool to undo you no matter the situation.
Loki couldnât help the satisfaction at your reaction. It was amusing. You, riding him as his hands were bound behind his back, yet were slowly coming apart by only a breath of his words. âYouâre close, arenât you?â
You didnât replyâcouldnât reply. Too fucked out in the upcoming sensation. You were also failing not to keep your anger at him, because it was falling apart as you rode through your high right now.
âFuckââ you eyes shut tight, arms curling around his broad shoulders like holding on to your dear life. Your thighs shook heavily. Your hips became more desperate.
Lokiâs dark chuckle echoed in the air, going straight to your throbbing cunt. âGo on, darling. Take your win. Come for me, sweet girl. Come for me.â
It drove you over the edge then. A high pitched moan left your throat, back arched him as orgasm hit you. Your nails dug into the skin of his neck as you reached your peak. Loki came with a strangled groan of your name a second after, his hot cum painting your pulsing walls.
Your head fell against his shoulder almost right away, catching your breath heavily above Loki while he was doing the same. Hair slicked to your forehead, cheeks flushed from the post orgasm state. After a few minutes of silence, you slowly lifted your head up again, eyes searching for him lazily.
âThe book.â It was the first word you chose to say after all that mess youâd just caused. âWhere is it?â
Loki chuckled underneath you, shaking his head at how quickly you turned cold to him again. Classic. âIâm not done using it yet.â
âItâs not yours to use to begin with,â you reminded him.
The god rolled his eyes. âSo unfriendly. Canât a friend borrow something?â
Friend? Funny. You didnât answer, only glaring holes at him with your burning eyes. Eventually, Loki sighed, giving you a defeated nod as he rested back against the sofa.
âFine,â he finally conceded. âIâll give it back.â
Eyebrows frowned, you squinted at him. That easily? But before you could question Loki, he already added.
âUnder one condition,â his finger held up, as a matter of factly. That grin on his face was unmistakable. âAfter I make you scream my name for the second and third time. With my own terms and untied hands.â
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