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buckets-and-trees · 17 days ago

Note

This is pure self-serving, but can you share some thots or bites about tattoo artist slash tattoo shop owner Steve from Obsidian Stain & Sin?

I still remember that line that he loves to work the front as much as the back 👀🤭

well

I had someday intentions of sharing Tattoo Artist Steve's story, I just didn't know that day was going to be today. But when I started typing up some thots about him, the muse said, no...

YOU GET STORYTIME

Like Real People Do [Obsidian Stain & Sin]

Characters/Pairings: tattoo artist!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 3.5k Summary: The owner of Obsidian Stain & Sin has his sights - and his heart - set on someone. And he has had for a very long time.

Content/Warnings: tattooing/needles, friends to lovers, fluff

Author Notes: While this exists within the Obsidian Stain & Sin verse, there is NO NEED WHATSOEVER to have read any of that series to read this - it's 100% a stand-alone.

Three years.

You’ve owned the bakery a block away from Steve’s tattoo parlor for three years. Freshly baked bread and pastries in the morning and offering sandwiches and desserts through the afternoon for lunch service.

Steve has had his place in this neighborhood downtown for almost nine years. He wasn’t the first in the area, but he and the other business owners really showed up to support each other and build a bustling and vibrant area for the local community, the kind of place where you really have a group regulars, people who feel like they belong. Familiar faces even if not everyone knows your name.

So of course he’d been there for your grand opening.

And he’s been there almost every day since.

Everything you made was good, you kept a friendly staff, and it was all fair pricing—fair to you and fair to the customers.

But it wasn’t the crullers or croissants or even the goddamn Italian grinder on focaccia that kept him coming back. It was you. The breeze-in-the-door, flour-on-your-elbow, permanent half-exasperation-half-kindness etched onto your face, you.

He had been so drawn in by how you interacted with everyone. He had almost been skeptical of it at first because you were nice to everyone the same way. Not flirty per se, but buoyant, capable of making anyone—stuffy old lawyers, the construction crews in Carhartts, the hungover art students—feel cared about in the extremely brief window they interacted with you. Steve liked to think he wasn’t a sucker for that kind of thing, but here he was: a sucker, on the hook, and you didn’t have a clue.

You were friendly as hell with your regulars, that was true. But you were flirtatious—almost aggressively so—with every single one of them except Steve, whom you treated with something so close to total neutrality it had become a running joke, and yet he sometimes wanted to tip the pastry case over from sheer frustration.

He’d seen you ask the UPS driver if he’d modeled for their calendar, shoot finger guns at the tow truck lady and tell her she “looks like she can handle any kind of heavy machinery,” compliment the city inspector’s mustache, and wink at a grandma with such easy, unpretentious charm the air sparkled around you. Meanwhile, you’d slide a mug of coffee his way with a smile so mild and familial Steve sometimes checked his arms for the label reading “brother” you must surely see when you looked at him.

Maybe he’d grown soft in his late thirties. He was a long way from sneaking into clubs with fake ID’s and joyriding tattoo machines over his own knuckles. He’d traded in the tough-kid sneer for business owner’s collected-ness, for rolling out the appointment books and chatting roof repairs with his landlord, even for sitting through Sunday markets week after week with you as you went from stall to stall.

Not that that was any kind of chore.

No, the only thing that made your weekly tradition a true torture was that he couldn’t twine his fingers with yours or put his hand on the small of your back while the two of you made the rounds. But he wouldn’t give up those trips for anything. It was the time when the two of you got to talk about real things, where you went from friends to best friends. The place where you’d shared once that you took over the lease on this place because nothing else made sense after your mom died, that the ritual of mixing and stirring and proofing was the thing that helped you feel connected to her since you’d done so much baking with her growing up.

The way you’d said it—casually, like a punchline to a dumb joke—had stuck to him ever since: “I used to think I’d be an engineer, and now I fold dough like it’s a religion. Mom would laugh her ass off.” He’d wanted to reach for you then, but you were already three strides ahead, drifting toward the honey vendor.

He didn’t know if you realized how much you let him in, even as you left him out. Sometimes he caught you watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking, but the minute your eyes met, you’d toss him a snarky remark and breeze away, leaving an invisible cord attached to his chest.

So it made sense, in its own way, that when Steve’s dog died, you were the one who managed to talk him out of being stoic about it.

He’d mentioned it only in passing—“Yeah, lost her last night. She was old”—but you’d read the extra tightness in his jaw and marched yourself around the counter, grabbed his elbow, and told him, “I need a second set of hands in the kitchen. No, I don’t care if you’re good at it.” You deposited him in front of a thirty-pound sack of flour. Twenty minutes later, up to your elbows in wet dough, you handed him a wad and said, “Punch it, real hard,” so he did, and he cried a little, and you punched it too, and said, “She was a good dog.” You talked about his mutt for two hours while prepping for the next day’s bake.

Even after that, the next morning, you handed over his coffee in that same noncommittal, platonic style and told him to “try not to spill it.”

He’d been through enough relationships to know when someone wasn’t interested—god, had he ever—but, like a stubborn weed, hope kept growing sideways through the cracks. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he just needed to cut to the core of you. Maybe nobody tried. Maybe nobody lasted beyond the coffee smell and the hard mornings and the rising up at dawn.

Three years of best-friending it.

Steve had been dating someone when he first met you, but that had run its course and ended a few months later. You had been dating someone pretty seriously until a year ago when it crashed out in a blaze of epic proportions that you had needed time to move on from.

But now…

Well, maybe it was still not time, but Bucky had raked him over the coals, yet again, for continuing to stay on the sidelines.

So today is it.

Today he will ask you to go to dinner with him.

It’s a Tuesday, which means the shop will be slow enough by three that you’ll let your one of your reliable midday employees close.

Steve shows up at quarter to, trying not to hover while you count the till. The place is nearly empty except for one guy scrolling a phone over an untouched scone. You are hunting coins under the register when you say, “Hey. You got a sec?”

It is not at all what he’d planned, because suddenly you are the one doing the asking, voice serious, and he is off-balance enough to just follow you through the kitchen, down the warped-tile hallway lined with racks of cooling cookies, and out the heavy back door to the alley.

Behind the bakery, the city’s hum is muffled by dumpsters and the ancient brick walls, a secret place infused with the warm yeast smell and the drip of the condenser. You turn, arms folded, pinning him with a look that banishes any notion of easy banter.

“I have a weird favor to ask,” and he tries to hide how his heart just leapt, because even if it wasn’t what he hoped, being needed is pretty much all he wants, in any form. “Don’t laugh, but I need a tattoo. Like, right away.”

He blinks. “Yeah, that’s—actually, that’s not weird at all. I am a tattoo artist.”

You give a sharp laugh, then take in a deep breath before slowly exhaling. “It’s kind of for my mom. I know, very basic. I just… every year I think I’ll finally do something about it. Then the anniversary comes and I can’t decide on anything. But this morning I just… I think I know what I want. Can you fit me in this afternoon?”

“Absolutely,” he said, quickly. “You don’t even have to ask. We can go now.”

You tugged the sleeves of your shirt down over your wrists, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t want it to be a big thing, though. I don’t want everyone in the shop to see me cry like an idiot.”

He almost told you, right there, that he’d never thought you could be an idiot if you tried, but instead he said, “We’ll do it upstairs. Private room. I’ll lock the door, threaten to murder anyone who knocks. You can ugly-cry all you want, I promise.”

You smiled. “If I cry, you’re fired as my friend.”

“I accept those terms,” he said solemnly, but something lighter bloomed in your expression and he wanted to keep it going, to keep you right here with him, right now.

You shifted from one foot to the other. “So, do you want me to come with you now, or… Oh, you came here first! Did you want something? We can take it to go—”

Steve reached out and squeezed your arm, awkward with how casual it felt but very aware of the heat in your skin. "Naw, I’m not hungry now, but maybe later…” he hedged. Dinner after a tattoo would be a natural potential bridge to a next or something more, but this was more important. “Let’s do this for you first.”

Conversation on the walk over to Obsidian is easy between the two of you. A few of the guys say hello as Steve walks you past their stations and to the back to head upstairs, but to their intuition and credit, none of them make a fuss. They might all suspect, but only Bucky knows that you hang the sun and moon for him.

It’s a narrow flight to the second floor, freshly painted but with old bannister rails, and the studio up here is like entering a greenhouse at dusk—half-shaded by big ferns, incense from the main shop drifting up, dust motes floating in lazy parabola, tattered sketchbooks on the shelves. He’s used it only for the clients who can’t abide by the patter or music of the downstairs crowd. Some part of him is always startled by how peaceful it feels after the buzz and bustle of downstairs.

He pulls out his supplies and sets up his station with the ease of a thousand repetitions, and you just sit, perched on the edge of the armchair, collecting your words.

“I want a strawberry,” you blurt, the minute the silence stretches a touch too long. “On my inside arm, like here.” You point to the vulnerable pale spot above your elbow, the skin everyone calls ‘the kiss’ because it smarts the most.

Steve cracks a smile. “Not a rolling pin, or a whisk, or a Mom heart?”

You shake your head, serious. “She used to put half a strawberry on my cereal every morning, even when we were broke, even when I was too old for doting on.”

“You’re never too old to be doted on,” he says immediately, wondering who made you feel that way, wanting to dote on you for the rest of your life.

His nostrils flare at that thought because, sure, it’s probably true, but he hasn’t even taken you to dinner yet. When he looks up, you’re biting your lip.

There’s another beat of silence, and then you blink, and say, “So, I want it small. Maybe here?” You point at the exact spot inside of your left elbow, so close to the vein.

He leans in, careful, and the air between you grows electric. You’ve given him this moment, so he mustn’t fuck it up—he commits your pointing fingertip and the angle of your arm to memory, because the giving of a tattoo is as much about trust as design.

“Strawberry,” he murmurs, “tastefully tiny, right there.” His hand hovers, not quite touching, respectful of boundaries you never invited him past. “Do you want leaves? Seeds? A little flower?” He’s listening, but his pencil is already skittering across thin tracing paper with deft, sure lines.

You consider. “Maybe just the berry. Like it’s about to be eaten, but not yet. The anticipation.”

He nods, continuing to sketch: a pop of red, a sliver of green leaf, the pale seeded dots. “I can do that. Color, or—?”

“Color,” you say, and then, dropping your shoulder, add, “Obnoxiously bright. Cartoonish, even.”

He laughs, “I can do that.” You’re watching his hands, and he wonders if you can see how steady they are despite the tremor that comes with being near you like this.

He sketches in silence for a minute, and then holds the design up.

“That’s it,” you say. “That’s her,” and you crack a laugh.

He laughs, and busies his hands with the ritual: gloves, ink caps, needle packets, a small array of rainbow inks, and some washable ink pens to do a quick freehand of the design on your skin before he makes it permanent.

He’s never been nervous to tattoo anyone, but his hands feel too big now, too clumsy all of a sudden. But when he marks the spot, rounds the perfect oval red and gives it poppy green leaves and a stem, your arm does not flinch away. You prop your chin on the opposite palm and let him work, letting out an occasional warm, shaky breath.

You say, finally, “My mom had one on her ankle. Not a strawberry, but a little flower. She got it in the seventies and it looked like a bruise most of the time. She hated it, but she never covered it up.”

He keeps his head down, the machine a hum in the soft air. “Because it was a memory?”

You nod. “Because it was what made her different from all the other moms in our suburb. Even if she never wore skirts.”

The needle makes a short, sweet whine as he inks the tiny shape to your skin. You watch, not blinking. He wants to joke that you can look away, but something in the set of your jaw makes him respect it, so he lets you watch. At the last line of green, your eyes glass a little but you don’t brush it away, don’t make a sound.

After he blots it and wipes it down, you hold your arm up and flex, then stare at the tiny bandage like it’s a miracle. “It’s perfect,” you say, and your smile—unfiltered, raw—swells some private, breakable thing in Steve’s chest.

You don’t say anything for a minute, then, “I can’t tell if I’m about to cry or laugh.”

He grins, peels off his gloves, and lets himself look at you. “You can do both. It’s allowed.”

And you didn’t need his permission, but it’s like him saying it allows you to release all the feeling—excitement, nostalgia, longing, contentment, being singularly still for so long—and you laugh and cry. “I said crying would get you fired as my friend though.”

Steve considers for half a heartbeat, but it’s too perfect a shot not to take it.

“Maybe it’s about damn time.”

“What?” you blink up at him.

“No more friends. I want more. With you,” Steve says. The words are airless, nothing like he planned or how he’d ever said anything to anyone, but the rawness of your eyes and the trembling in your hands make him think maybe this is the only way to say something like that. The only way to be true.

The light shifting through the upstairs window fractures across your face, and your mouth is rounded in a little surprise. Steve’s stomach somersaults as you wrap your arms around your own ribcage, like you’re trying to keep all the words inside.

He says, gently, “Sorry. Too much. Ignore me if you—”

But you cut him off with a snort that is half delight, half incredulity. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

He laughs, unoffended, but also uncertain and caught off guard. “What?”

“Of course I want more with you. How could you not know that?”

Steve coughs out a laugh, equal parts stunned and relieved, and rubs his hand over his bearded jaw. “You never flirted with me,” he says, and the words, spoken out loud, sound a little sad, a little foolish. But he has to say them. “Not once. I thought I was, you know, on your ‘good neighbor’ list. Like, honorary grandma status.”

You stare at him, incredulity turning your face to something vivid. “Steve, you absolute moron. I flirt with everyone because I don’t care if I ever see them again. You’re the only one I couldn’t pull that with. You’re my best friend.” There’s a hush in your voice, suddenly vulnerable. “And what if I screwed it up?”

He lets that sink in. The shape of your logic is so backwards it makes perfect sense. “I’m scared of screwing it up too,” he says. “It’s terrifying to want one thing, one person, more than you want to even breathe.”

You both go silent again, this time full of an almost giddy electricity, nervous and new.

You stand up. It looks like maybe you’re about to pace. Instead you circle around his worktable and come to stand in front of him. He plants both of his hands on your waist, bringing you in closer, and your hands go softly to his shoulders. You’re searching his face for a sign, one last double-check that he means it, and he tries to meet you—steady, open, unafraid.

“I think I need you to kiss me now,” you say, and Steve nearly laughs because that’s what he’s wanted to do for at least two solid years.

He does. Careful at first—he may be a tattoo artist, but this is a more delicate first touch than any needle to skin. Your lips are soft and earnest, matching his own hunger.

He doesn’t let go, not for a while. When you finally separate, you’re both smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Wow,” you say. “You’re a pro at that, too?”

He shrugs, mock casual. “I do my best.”

“Is this what you were planning when you came to the shop today?”

He looks at you, all artifice gone. “Honestly? I was going to ask you to have dinner with me. But maybe we can go beyond that, now.”

“No,” you say firmly, and lower yourself to sit on his thigh, his arms still around you, “I definitely want dinner,” you insist. “I’m starving.”

He grins. “Fair enough, but then afterwards, maybe I show you what else I’m a pro at.”

“Oh, are there more sketchbooks at your house?”

He laughs. “No, you little menace. Well, there are, but that’s not,” he stops himself and shakes his head. Then he gives you a scrutinizing look. “Awfully bold, assuming I’m taking you back to my place already tonight. We haven’t even gone on a first date yet.”

You pluck a tattoo pen off his table and poke his chest before he can finish the thought, and he grins wider, snatching it easily from your hands.

“We’ve had basically three years of dates, Steve. I think we can skip a formality or two.” You hold his gaze, and it’s like you’ve both been set loose from something: the orbit of expectation, the inertia of being just friends. “I want you, Steve. All the time. And I want grilled cheese.”

He runs both hands up your arms, careful to miss the fresh wrap, and shakes his head in mock exasperation. “You’re an impossible woman,” he says. “But I am bringing you home tonight. And I’ll even make grilled cheese.”

“With raspberry jam,” you say.

He shakes his head, familiar with your quirky love of that salty and sweet pairing. “Not strawberry?” he asks.

“Nope, raspberry is the top tier choice. And a bit of mustard.”

“Mustard?” he scoffs. “When did you discover this?”

“Take me home and maybe I’ll tell you the glorious tale, Rogers.”

“Deal,” he says, then pulls you in for another kiss, the best and only way he wants to seal it.

I've known the shape of Steve's story for a long time. I don't know why I didn't write it sooner, but when I saw this early this morning, it just sort of captured my day and spilled out here, and I'm so glad it did!

And I think we might see a little more of them... if we'd like that.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest Chris Evans Characters Collection

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x yn #steve rogers x y/n #female reader #obsidian stain and sin #friends to lovers #aspen wrote something #askpen #aspen's 3 x 3.6 sleepover #chris-mas in july #tattoo au

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societyfolklore · 2 months ago

Text

Thank Me for the Ache

Title: Thank Me for the Ache

Pairing: Loki x Asgardian!Female Reader

Summary: You wanted Loki. You wore his colors. Laughed too loud across the feast hall. Thought you were clever, subtle. But Loki has seen your type before. So when you're summoned to his chambers, you think it's working. You think you're ready. But this isn’t a seduction. It’s an undoing.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Dark!Loki, Non-consensual somatic manipulation, vaginal fingers and fisting, Dub-con elements, Power imbalance Loki's Sadistic dominance, Loki uses magic for restraint, Mocking language / degradation, Crying during climax, Pain + pleasure overlap, Humiliation kink.. NO beta... just filth

A/N: This is all because @mischiefmaker615 read the my Steve Rogers fisting fic and went ‘how about a Loki version’ and this… this was born… So here it is...

You’d heard the whispers long before you ever dared to look him in the eye.

In the quiet corners of court, behind veils and under breath, women spoke of Prince Loki with a reverence that bordered on fear. They giggled about the way he touched, talked about it being elegant, devastating, slow like honey poured over a blade. They said he didn’t fuck; he composed. That his fingers were poetry, his mouth a promise, his cruelty a slow climb you begged to crest. That once you were beneath him, nothing else would ever satisfy.

You’d hung on the words of those who claimed they’d had him. The breathless as they told stories of nights so indulgent, so perfectly unrelenting, that they hadn’t walked properly the next day. Of excruciating ecstasy, of painful pleasure, of delight so sharp it hurt, of the way he could make you sob just from the pressure of a single knuckle. How he would whisper against their skin, how he made them come until they cried. How he smiled when they shook.

But not all spoke with delight. Some women turned pale at the mention of Loki name, eyes clouding with something unspoken. They made vague excuses and left the room as if summoned elsewhere. No one pressed them. No one ever asked them what happened behind that locked chamber door. And maybe that was answer enough.

It should’ve warned you.

But curiosity is a dangerous thing. And desire, worse still. It carves out the part of your mind that whispers caution and fills it with something hungrier. Something bold.

You’d never been the kind of beauty men chased through gardens. You knew that. But there were things they did say about the softness of your eyes, your posture, the way you looked when you listened. You’d been told once you had an agreeable innocence. Something quiet men liked to imagine breaking. Something they liked to take.

The boys you had known before? They kissed like dogs. Rough hands, too much spit, hips that chased their own release and never yours. They didn’t know the weight of anticipation, the art of restraint. You wanted something else. Something with purpose. Something with control. Something with teeth.

You wanted him.

So you began to linger. You wore his colors, dresses in forest green, deep gold, obsidian black. Not overtly, not all at once, but enough that someone paying attention might notice. You took to the upper libraries, pretending to study volumes of politics or history whenever you thought he might pass through. You timed your walks in the gardens. You paused outside the halls near the throne room, near the last public spaces before the families private sections of the palace. You positioned yourself where his shadow might fall.

You told yourself it was just a bit of fun. He'd never take real notice of someone like you. Someone unremarkable, from an unremarkable family. Not when so many others were worthy, better suited, more obvious choices. All you had A harmless crush, a passing fancy. A daydream stitched into silk.

But nothing about wanting Loki ever truly was harmless.

~#~#~#~#~#~ It had started like any other evening in the feasting halls; harp music, gold wine, laughter spilling across the long tables as the court gathered beneath Asgard's torched ceiling. You sat lower than the royal dais, of course, among lesser ladies and honored guests, but you’d placed yourself well. A seat angled just so. Legs crossed. Gown cut high on the thigh; your skin bare just where it counted.

You’d been working at it, honing the act, the performance. Over the last few weeks, you’d practiced the art of flirtation like a student chasing perfection. That playful, teasing smile you’d seen more experienced women wear? You’d tried it on in mirrors. Polished the way your laugh curled out of your throat. Learned how to touch an arm just long enough to be noticed.

Tonight was your boldest attempt yet.

You laughed too easily at the nobleman seated beside you. Let your fingers brush his arm, just once. Not because you wanted him, but because you could feel eyes on your skin. From above. From the dais. From him.

Prince Loki sat beside his brother, all dark hair and sharp cheekbones, quiet behind the rim of his goblet. He hadn’t spoken a word aloud, but you felt him. Watching. Assessing. Unblinking.

And gods, your body reacted.

Heat flared in your cheeks, racing down your spine and flooding through your blood until it pooled low; aching, insistent. That little hidden pearl between your thighs throbbed like it had been called by name. Just from the way he looked at you. Just from being seen.

You swore you could feel his gaze like a brand. It stripped you bare across the tables, set every inch of skin aflame. Your thighs pressed together, subtle and instinctive, but it did nothing to ease the slow pulse building between them. It was maddening, the way he could awaken something inside you without even moving.

You felt the nobleman's hand settle on your leg- polite, possessive. A touch that might’ve thrilled you once. Now it felt distant, dull. You dropped your gaze to it, unbothered, and then looked back toward the dais.

He was gone.

You blinked, pulse skipping. One moment Loki had been there, the next his seat sat empty. Like smoke, like shadow. Slipped between moments without a trace. A strange emptiness bloomed in your chest, cold where the heat had just lived. Your stomach twisted, hollow and tight. Had he seen too much? Or not enough? Had your display turned him away or lured him in?

Your mind raced through every look, every smile, every moment from the past weeks. Had you misjudged? Were you a fool draped in green silk, playing at games you didn’t understand?

You looked away. Reached for your wine with fingers that felt colder than they should have. Maybe you’d overplayed your hand. Maybe you’d never held anything at all.

But then a maid appeared behind you.

“His Highness,” she said, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear, “has requested your presence in his chambers.”

You nearly dropped the goblet.

The words struck like thunder through velvet. Your breath caught, your entire body going still. Heat raced to your cheeks, your pulse a frantic flutter in your throat. Your heart stumbled, then began to pound hard enough you were sure the maid could hear it.

But somehow, you managed a graceful nod. Rising smoothly to your feet, smoothing the front of your gown, controlling the tremble in your hands like your life depended on it. No stumbling. No squealing. Just a polite smile, a murmured excuse to your companions, and a slow, measured turn toward the darkened hall.

But inside? You were already running. Breathless. Drenched in disbelief. Burning from the inside out.

He’d seen you. He’d chosen you.

You stood before the towering door, heart hammering against your ribs, palms clammy despite the chill in the corridor.

For a wild moment, you considered turning back. Not out of fear, no, not entirely, but from the wild flutter of not knowing what waited on the other side. Was this truly happening? Or would you step inside only to be mocked, laughed at, dismissed as another foolish girl with dangerous fantasies stitched into her skin?

But the door was already opening.

Soundless, smooth. Drawn by some force that felt older than you. The darkness beyond beckoned like a breathless story, pages ready to be turned.

The room beyond glowed gold and green. Candles burning low in sconces shaped like twisting serpents, casting long shadows against the stone. The scent of old books, aged parchment, and something darker lingered in the air, thick like smoke, heady like spiced wine. Silks pooled over carved furniture, emerald and black, rippling like oil under flame. There was a hum in the walls, a tension that vibrated at the edge of hearing.

A single chaise near the hearth. And him.

Loki lounged like he’d been expecting you for hours. Still in full formal dress, robes draped carelessly over the arms of the chaise, his collar open at the throat to reveal a glint of pale skin and the suggestion of muscle beneath. One leg bent lazily, the other extended, foot planted firm like he was claiming the floor beneath him. There was nothing casual about the way he sat- it was studied, deliberate, designed to command.

His fingers flexed along the armrest, slow and unhurried. His gaze, when it finally slid over to you, was unreadable. Patient. Predatory. He didn’t smile.

He looked like a man waiting to begin something he had already planned to end.

Like he owned the room.

Like he owned everything.

Your breath stuttered. You felt your body pull tight, spine straightening in response to something instinctive and ancient. A shiver ghosted up your neck, and your hands clenched at your sides without your permission. Every inch of your body was screaming caution and invitation at the same time.

Your throat felt too tight, your skin too hot. Part of you wanted to turn and flee but more than that, deeper than anything else, you wanted to earn whatever came next. You wanted to be chosen again, touched, seen, undone.

You took a step in.

He didn’t rise. He didn’t need to. The door shut behind you, sealing you in with a soft finality. Your hands twisted together, all that feigned confidence bleeding out under the weight of his gaze, every drop of your boldness dissolving like sugar in heat.

“For someone who’s worked so hard to catch my eye,” he drawled, voice a dark ribbon of silk laced with scorn, “you do look dreadfully uncertain now that you have it.”

You stiffened. Swallowed. The air in your throat turned thick, smoky.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with something cruel and amused. “Dressing in my colors. Lurking in my path. Casting glances like lures, as if I were some creature easy to bait.” His fingers drummed lazily on the armrest, each movement precise, deliberate. “Seduction, little thing, is meant to be mutual. A dance. But you… you’ve skipped the steps entirely. Offered yourself up like a lamb on a platter. A tribute left at the mouth of the fire, praying the flame notices.”

Your face ignited. A rush of heat surged through your chest, down your belly, pooling thick and aching between your thighs. You felt bare, foolish, burning- and still, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. You were utterly, helplessly caught.

He rose with slow elegance, the shift of his body all predator, all purpose. “Shall I unwrap the gift ribbon by ribbon?” he mused, stalking forward, voice curling against your skin like smoke. “Or tear into it, teeth and all, and see if you’ll still beg to be opened?”

“I- ”

A flick of his fingers.

Silence.

Three soundless steps and he was close enough to steal the air from your lungs.

“So many want to share my bed,” he murmured, his voice a blade near your ear. “But most have no idea what they ask for,” he murmured, gaze raking over you like a blade. “We’ll see if you’re just another desperate little girl, or something… more delicious. Something worthy. Let’s test how well you handle what you so clearly, so pathetically, crave. " You nodded. Not because you were brave.

But because you still believed this was a game you could win.

He circled you like a shadow unfurling, slow and certain, each step deliberate. There was no sound beyond the soft rustle of fabric and the low crackle of firelight, but the air vibrated with tension like a bowstring pulled taut and trembling.

You didn’t dare move.

Every cell in your body trembled with anticipation, nerves drawn tight and shivering beneath your skin. He hadn’t touched you-not yet- but already you were unraveling beneath the weight of his attention alone.

“You wanted a bedroom game,” Loki murmured, voice curling around you like silk over a blade. He tilted his head, green eyes gleaming with amusement and hunger. “Is that what you thought this would be? A bit of courtly fun? Stolen kisses and whispered flattery?”

He stepped closer, his breath warm at your cheek. “Let us be clear, little thing. This is not a dance. This is not some breathless fairytale.”

His fingers ghosted over your hip, a gliding tease. “You offered yourself up thinking I might be charmed. But seduction is a shared art... and I’ve yet to be entertained.”

He stepped close. So close you could feel the ghost of his breath against your lips, warm and teasing, as though even his exhale knew how to make you tremble. One hand rose with slow precision, his fingers gliding in a featherlight graze along your collarbone, then lower still. The touch barely registered at first, but it left a trail of fire in its wake- searing through your skin, coiling heat down your spine until your breath stuttered and your back arched subtly, helpless to the way your body reacted.

“What are you hoping to prove, I wonder?” he murmured, voice soft as velvet and twice as binding, the words brushing your cheek like a secret he was planting beneath your skin. “That you can tempt not only a prince, but the God of Mischief himself?”

His mouth hovered, achingly close to yours, and your lips parted instinctively, chasing contact that never came. His eyes glittered- cruel, amused, intrigued- and for one suspended second, it felt like the world narrowed to the space between your mouths.

Then he smiled. Slowly. Cruelly. Like he'd just won the very first portion of this very long game.

“This,” he breathed, voice silk soaked in sin, “is where the fun begins.”

And with that, he moved behind you, hands rising to your shoulders like a sculptor approaching fresh marble. The heat of him at your back made your skin prickle, anticipation flaring bright and breathless across every inch of you.

His touch was maddening. The first tug of silk slipped the gown from your collarbone. His fingers, long, elegant, terrifying, dragged the straps down your arms, exposing the tops of your breasts. His knuckles grazed your skin as he worked, and every brush of contact lit your nerves afire.

“You’re already pink,” he murmured, voice amused as he leaned close to your ear. “Flushed and gasping, and I haven’t even begun. Tell me- do you always tremble this easily, or is it just me?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no sound emerged only a breathy gasp as the fabric slipped further down your torso.

“Hmm,” Loki mused, voice like silk against your skin. “I can see it, you know. The way you try so hard to stay composed. But I think we both know you’re not used to this.”

The gown pooled around your waist, baring your chest to the firelight. Cool air kissed your nipples, already peaked, and Loki’s smile grew darker.

“Inexperienced,” he said, almost to himself. “Delicious.”

You whimpered, the sound quiet, barely more than a breath but he caught it. Fed on it. One hand moved to your waist, and he began to draw the gown lower, down your hips, over your thighs, until the silk lay forgotten at your ankles.

He stepped back then, gaze raking down your now-bare form, an examination. His hand, lingering as he moved, trailed across your skin gliding from your hip to your waist, up the curve of your side like he was committing every inch of you to memory. There was nothing hurried in the touch, nothing careless. It was as if he wanted you to feel his claim in every pass of his palm, his fingers brushing deliberately over sensitive skin, leaving a wake of gooseflesh behind. You shivered, not from cold, but from the slow, searing weight of his attention. His presence was everywhere, all around you, and still somehow- devastatingly- not close enough.

The chamber had shifted when you hadn’t been looking.

The fire had grown larger, licking higher in the hearth, casting golden light that danced in wild shadows along the stone walls. The chaise was gone, as if it had never existed. In its place, the center of the room had been cleared, made sacred. A thick velvet blanket now stretched out before the fire, deep green and edged in gold thread, soft as clouds and wide enough to cradle you both.

The shadows pulsed along the edges of the room like sentinels. Watching. Waiting.

Loki said nothing. He didn’t need to. A single tilt of his chin, a flick of his gaze to the blanket, and your body obeyed.

Barefoot, you moved forward with slow, unsteady steps, heat prickling along your spine. You were shaking. Flushed. Still breathing too hard. The air felt thicker here, dense with expectation. You could feel the heat blooming high in your cheeks, curling in your belly, dripping low between your thighs.

The blanket welcomed you.

Soft, decadent, warm from the fire. You knelt first, then let yourself lower further, thighs parting just slightly as your trembling spine met velvet. You didn’t dare look up.

But you felt him.

He moved with purpose, the faint rustle of heavy robes announcing his disrobing like a prelude to something unholy. The fabric slid from his shoulders and hit the stone floor with a sound that echoed but somehow final. Like the closing of a door behind you, sealing you in. You risked a glance, unable not to, and the sight drew the breath straight from your lungs, he was bare from the waist up, alabaster skin shimmering gold beneath the firelight, his body all sculpted muscle and languid threat. His chest rose slow and steady, like he wasn’t even pretending not to enjoy this.

But the black trousers remained.

Deliberate. Controlled. Denied.

Loki caught you staring and the corner of his mouth curled into a knowing, predatory smirk. “You’ll have to earn that,” he murmured, voice like velvet soaked in danger- a promise and a threat interwoven into silk. “Though judging by how you’re looking at me, I imagine you’ll beg first.”

He moved beside you, each step unhurried, a stalking god in no rush to end your torment. When he knelt, the heat of him settled beside your thigh, his gaze devouring and cool and endless. His hand reached out with unnerving calm, fingertips grazing the sensitive inside of your leg with a featherlight stroke.

“Now,” Loki said, voice low and deliciously wicked, each syllable painting promise across your skin, “let’s see what you’re really offering. And whether you’re quite ready to be devoured.”

He did not rush. Not ever.

He leaned over you at last, his breath warm as his lips finally pressed against yours. Slow. Possessive. Kisses that curled under your ribs and lingered low in your belly, unwinding you like silk ribbon with every calculated stroke of his mouth. Your moans came easily an eager sounds that seemed to amuse him.

His hands began to move with purpose, stroking over your chest, fingers grazing the swell of your breasts before circling your nipples - already hard, already aching. His thumbs flicked once, twice, drawing a gasp from your throat. His mouth never stopped moving, drinking in every sound you made, as if collecting proof of just how easily you could be undone.

Each kiss was deliberate, laced with scrutiny, each touch a measurement. You felt appraised, studied, like a delicate instrument in the hands of a composer, one who knew just how to play you to the edge.

Then his fingers drifted lower.

Down your ribs, across your belly, until at last they slipped between your thighs.

You were soaked. Wet and wanting, your cunt already throbbing with every uneven breath. His fingers slid easily through your folds, and the sound they made, a slick, obscene glide, sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

“I wonder,” Loki mused, low and silken as his fingers circled your entrance, “if your innocence will survive my fingers, little thing.”

He pushed inside. One long finger, deeper than you expected, deeper than you’d ever known. It filled you, stretched you, the pad of his finger brushing something high and tender inside that made you gasp aloud.

“So tight,” Loki purred, lips grazing your jaw. “Perhaps your gift is being untouched- ripe and unspoiled. All mine to carve open.”

The word 'unspoiled' echoed in your mind, catching in your chest. His voice made you remember the whispers of the other ladies. How no one compared, how once he'd had you, nothing else would ever be enough. If this was what he deemed untouched, pure… then those awkward, fumbling boys you’d let paw at you in the dark hadn’t even left a mark. The thought sent heat flooding to your cheeks, down your spine, pooling low and molten between your legs. "You will open for me wont you?"

You whined at the feeling, hips rocking down instinctively, your breath stuttering with the pressure. His finger moved slowly, deliberately, curling just slightly. You couldn’t help it, the moan that broke free, thick and needy, the way your body clutched around him as if trying to pull him in deeper, demanding more. Your thighs quivered, your spine arched, your fingers curling tight in the velvet as your body responded before your mind could catch up. The ache swelled deeper, throbbing and relentless, a desperate craving to be filled more, to be split wider, taken further, anything to quell the unbearable need.

"Yes.." Your own voice all breath and shaking.

"Good.."

The second finger joined the first with cruel precision. He didn’t scissor right away. No, he took his time. First he pumped them together, slow and merciless, sinking them deep until the thick press of his fingers curved just right, brushing against that devastating place inside you that made your whole body jolt. The sensation wasn’t just pleasure- it was obliteration. Your back arched helplessly, your thighs clenching, your fingers tearing at the velvet beneath as if you could anchor yourself to the floor.

He kept his gaze fixed on your face, drinking in every twitch, every stuttering gasp, his smirk only deepening as you writhed for him. Again and again, he drove them in, dragging the pads of his fingers along that soft, shivering place deep within that made your eyes flutter and your mouth fall open.

“There,” he murmured, rich with cruel satisfaction. “Oh, that’s the spot, isn’t it? I do so love watching you try so hard to be good… so desperate to behave while your body begs to be broken.”

Only once your arousal began to peak. Your thighs trembling, your cunt clenching. Only then did Loki begin to scissor them, stretching you wider with deliberate cruelty. The burn bloomed, sharp and searing and good. His hand was larger than yours- his fingers longer, thicker- and your body strained to take them.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, voice a velvet razor against your ear. “The trembling? That’s not fear, darling. That’s your body learning. Wanting.”

His voice was distant, like a bell in fog. You were too caught in the heat blooming through your core, the way your walls gripped him tight as he pumped in and out, slow and merciless spreading wide only to close and push back in.

By the time the third slid in, your body was already slick with need, your entrance fluttering in anticipation. And yet, despite how wet you were, it still stung- a sharp, stretching burn that made your thighs tremble and your breath catch. The pain bloomed alongside pleasure, one feeding the other until the distinction between them blurred. His fingers pushed higher, claiming more space with agonizing intent, and this time, his thumb found your clit with a slow, deliberate press that made your entire body jolt. The ache dissolved beneath the pleasure, melted into something hotter, deeper- something you could no longer resist.

You gasped and moaned, your head foggy and your limbs heavy with the overwhelming sensation. But any time you reached for him, to feel the warmth of his skin, to grind your hips up into his palm and chase some ounce of control, he pushed you back down. Hands firm and unyielding, a silent command that you would take only what he chose to give. He kept himself just out of reach, denying you the smallest sliver of reciprocation, of reassurance. Denying you the satisfaction of knowing whether your flushed, writhing body was affecting him even a fraction as much as he was you. Whether your soft little cries and trembling thighs made him throb beneath his leathers. It was maddening- the not knowing- and it only sharpened the ache inside you, twisted it tighter, made the emptiness more unbearable and the hunger more savage.

His thumb circled. Teased. Flicked. The friction was unbearable yet perfect. You whimpered, hips jerking helplessly as he worked you open, pushing in and out in steady, cruel rhythm. His fingers curled with precision, pressing against a place deep inside that made your vision flash white and your stomach drop with need. A place that sang when he touched it, that made your toes curl and your jaw fall slack.

Every breath came out a cry; raw, shuddering, wracked with unbearable need. Every motion he drew from you wrung another wave of trembling heat through your belly, your thighs twitching, your back arching off the floor.

And still, he gave you no rest, no mercy, only more. More touch, more sensation, more of his cruel and calculated rhythm.

“Come, then,” Loki murmured against your ear, voice molten silk wrapped around a blade. “Or can’t you? Shameful thing. Is that why you flirted so sweetly from across the hall? Because no one’s ever done it right?”

The heat broke. It shattered inside you, a sharp crack of white-hot sensation that tore a scream from your throat. Your orgasm crashed through you- wet, violent, unrelenting- your body clenching hard around his fingers as your hips jerked and trembled, muscles seizing with the force of your release. It truly was excruciating ecstasy. Too much and yet not enough, like your skin couldn’t hold you together.

You gasped, sobbed, breath catching in your chest as the waves rolled on, drawn out by the exacting motion of his fingers. For a moment, your vision blurred, limbs going slack.

You thought it was over. That this torment had reached its peak. You lay back chest heavy hard, your own hands raking through your hair expecting his fingers to leave, for the sound of his remaining clothes being shed to follow.

But Loki only laughed, low and dark and utterly amused by his ruination of you

“Oh, you’re trembling already?” he purred. “And here I thought you were ready to be ruined. Silly little thing- did you think surrender came so cheaply?"

You were still gasping, the aftershocks of release trembling through your limbs, when his fingers began to move again. Slowly. Purposefully. Spreading apart, stretching you anew with terrifying patience.

You barely had time to register the sensation before your body seized again, breath catching in your throat as the stretch returned with brutal, deliberate clarity. There was no rhythm this time. No rocking or pumping. Just pressure. Just intrusion. Loki's fingers didn’t thrust, they pried. He pressed them apart, splaying them wide inside you like he was mapping your limits, measuring your weakness. Your cunt spasmed around him, still fluttering from the orgasm he'd ripped from your bones, and the pain bloomed all over again. A wicked, fresh burn that licked along your inner walls and curled into your belly like hot wire.

“Prince?” you gasped, the word barely more than a broken whisper. A plea. A warning. A mistake. It scraped up your throat, dry and cracked, already knowing it would do no good.

“Shhh,” he cooed, voice soaked in false sweetness, like syrup laced with poison. “Why stop now, little one? You’re doing so well.”

You barely noticed the fourth finger until it was there. Slid in during your dazed breaths, buried to the knuckle, an intrusion so smooth and cruel that it took a beat too long for your body to recognize the new, brutal depth.

Your form, still boneless and pliant from the release he’d pulled from you moments ago, accepted it at first- soft, open, trusting. But the moment your mind caught up to the betrayal, your body tensed like a bowstring. Panic surged. Your breath snagged, your legs twitched, your thighs shaking as your body tried and failed to close around the impossible fullness.

“No, no… wait…”

You tried to shift your hips, to squirm away, but his free hand flattened against your stomach, pinning you down with that impossible strength of his. His palm was heavy, steady, fingers splayed in quiet command, possessive in the way only a man who had already claimed you could be. The subtle press of his thumb at your hip bone made your entire body lock in place, trembling under his hold. You couldn’t move, not even a twitch, not when his touch made the blood in your veins feel molten.

The weight of his gaze was even worse. It pinned you like a knife through silk- cool and clinical, detached but somehow ravenous. His eyes roved your body like a scholar documenting a sacred rite, a botanist watching a flower bloom under fire, full of fascinated cruelty.

“You came on my fingers like a wanton thing,” he said at last, dragging each syllable like velvet over barbed wire. “Moaning, clenching, so desperate to be filled. And now you think I’m finished?”

The words stung more than his fingers. They rang in your head, echoing the stories whispered through the courts. How his hands alone could reduce a woman to tears.

You shook your head, lips parting to plead again, but he cut you off with a smile so cruel it made your stomach flip.

"You wanted a bedroom game. You wanted me. Well, darling, this is what that means."

He didn’t wait. He moved.

His fingers curled and spread, pushing deeper, knuckles grinding against the trembling rim of your entrance as he forced the four digits wider. The stretch was obscene. More than that- it was invasive, carnal, so impossibly filling it felt like you were being remade around him. Pain bloomed, vivid and hot, sharp enough to draw tears from your eyes as your walls clamped down, instinctively resisting the intrusion, trying to protect you from exactly what you’d invited in.

“Please- Loki… it’s too- ”

“Too much?” he echoed, mock sympathy dripping from his tongue. “Oh, sweet thing. This is just my hand. And you’re not even close to being finished."”

The thrust came slow but thorough, the width of his knuckles dragging against your inner walls, forcing them apart inch by aching inch. You sobbed beneath him, hips twitching in protest, but the slick between your thighs betrayed you, shining and wet and wanton.

“Imagine what I could do,” he murmured, bending low to your ear, “with even a sliver of seiðr.”

Your cunt clenched in response, torn between panic and raw, aching desire. The pain hadn’t lessened- not truly- but it had shifted, evolved into something darker, deeper. It had transformed, melting at the edges, folding into the heat curling inside you like smoke, wrapping tight around your spine. Every time he pushed in, the burn flared- sharp, relentless- and every time he spread his fingers, something wild and wordless inside you broke open, screaming and begging and blooming.

It was painful pleasure. It was excruciating ecstasy.

And still, he gave you no reprieve.

You could feel yourself dripping around his hand, a humiliating betrayal of your body's desperate hunger. The pressure was maddening. He didn’t move fast. He didn’t relent. Just slow, merciless pulses of his fingers inside you, stretching you to the brink of yourself.

You wanted to say stop.

You wanted to beg for more.

And you were terrified that he knew exactly which one you meant.

He didn’t stop.

You were still blinking through tears, gasping from the last punishing stretch, when his hand shifted again, twisting slightly, testing. And then you saw it, his thumb folding in tight, tucking flush against his palm. A moment passed. Your body recognized the shape before your mind could comprehend.

“No, no- please,” you gasped, feet kicking at the ground, heels skidding across the blanket in wild, useless protest. You tried to squeeze your thighs together, to crawl back, scramble away from him. But you didn’t get far.

With a flick of his fingers, Loki’s seiðr shimmered across your skin. Invisible bonds seized your legs, arms, hips, holding you open like an offering. His power lifted you, just slightly. Your spine curved upward, suspended by nothing, as if you were weightless and laid bare upon air itself. You hovered on display, trembling, powerless.

At this angle, he made sure you watched. Watched as his long fingers coned together again, glistening and wet, and began their descent toward your ruined cunt. The sight was too much, and you turned your face away, ashamed, overwhelmed- only for his free hand to grab your jaw, firm and unyielding.

“Don’t be shy,” he crooned. “This was going to be your gift to me, remember?”

You whined as you felt the press of his knuckles at your entrance once more, your body instinctively tensing, even as heat pooled and coiled inside you all over again.

He pulled his hand free slowly, watching your body spasm around the retreat. You sobbed at the emptiness and the sting, thinking- hoping- that it was over.

But Loki was admiring the way your slick clung to his fingers, hand glistening with your arousal. He hummed in amusement, cocking his head as if examining a trophy.

Then, without a word, he summoned a glass vial into his hand. A thick, golden oil glimmered inside. He popped the stopper, pouring the warm liquid over his fingers, hand and wrist, coating the same hand that had already broken you so thoroughly.

You whimpered, head shaking as he leaned back over you. He smeared more of the oil over your cunt, the heat of it seeping into your swollen skin. It should have felt soothing. Instead, it only heightened your sensitivity. Your body quivering, torn between craving and rejection. “Please…” you whimpered again, voice cracking, lower lip trembling under the pressure of his grip on your jaw. Your legs trembled in their bonds, heart stuttering with every breathless second that passed.

“Don’t be so stubborn,” he murmured, letting go out your face while his other hand was rubbing the oil in slow, lazy circles. “You're so pretty like this,” he murmured. “Tried so hard to earn a glance, a touch...I'm going to make sure you remember what my touch is like."

He pushed back in.

All his fingers slid into your ruined cunt again, this time smoother, deeper, guided by the slickness of oil and the humiliating evidence of your own desire. He twisted his wrist, angled his knuckles, pulsing in slow strokes as your hips trembled beneath the magical restraints.

You were crying now, gasping, body arching as he forced you wider. Each push flared the burn into something sharp, and yet your walls pulsed around him, greedy and terrified. It was too much.

Too full. Too deep. And yet…

“You’ll do this,” he growled. “Your Prince commands you take it." He was watching your chest, timing your breathing, the pressure always there as adjusting moving..

The pressure changed.

You felt it- his hand, the heel of it, nudging at your entrance. The widest part. Your breath caught, lungs seizing as the burn reached a fever pitch. You were just a mess of quiet, pleading whines for him now, your eyes fixed on his face, too frightened to look at what was happening between your legs. "Stop fighting it," he rasped, his voice raw and dark with hunger. "Stop clenching and let me in."

The stretch was agony wrapped in desire, the true excruciating ecstasy he’d promised. Your body rebelled, trying to reject him even as it betrayed you, muscles loosening inch by trembling inch under the pressure of his persistence. Every nerve burned. Every throb felt like fire and silk mingled into one brutal, brilliant torment. You sobbed, shivering, the pleasure so intense it almost disguised the pain- or maybe the pain had simply become another kind of pleasure.

And then- you were full.

Not just stretched. Not just filled.

You were wrapped around his wrist.

Your cunt fluttered wildly, spasming around the impossible shape lodged inside you, the muscles clenching in helpless surrender. Loki’s eyes gleamed with possessive triumph as he watched you unravel, the edges of his mouth curled in a satisfied sneer. Your own mouth was parted in a silent, choked whimper. Too breathless for a scream, too overwhelmed to speak.

"Well now," he drawled, voice low and electric, "look what you’ve done. Such a pretty little ruin, all for me."

He began to move.

Not fast. Not rough. But deep. Deliberate. Fisting you slowly, dragging the weight of his hand through your ravaged core, curling and twisting, pulling soft sobs from your throat with every cruel slide.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. You were nothing but sensation- raw, shuddering, overwhelmed.

Loki leaned down, grinning, breath ghosting across your sweat-slick face. “I told you you’d come on my hand,” he whispered. “You were just too naive to know I meant all of it.”

Loki reached down. Found your trembling hand. Guided it to your belly.

“There,” he said, pressing your fingers into the bulge beneath your navel. “Feel that?”

Your eyes widened. He was inside. So deep you didn't just feel, but you could see him through under your skin.

He reached down, curling his fingers around your trembling hand, the one you could no longer lift on your own. Gently, deliberately, he guided it toward the obscene stretch of your body where his wrist still rested, buried to the base inside you. As he began to pull back, he coaxed your fingers to wrap around his glistening forearm.

“Now,” he murmured darkly, eyes gleaming with that cruel mirth. “Push it back in for me, pet. Let’s see how eager you really are."

He guided your trembling hand to the base of his wrist again, and you watched- horrified and entranced- as your fingers clenched weakly around his slick forearm. Your body quivered, hips twitching as you obeyed, pressing his fist back into yourself, inch by agonizing inch. It was obscene- some perverse, sacred act of submission and Loki relished every flicker of doubt in your eyes, every catch in your breath. "Deeper… all the way, until I tell you to stop.”

The stretch was unbearable, the burn renewed, but you followed his order, pushing until your palm kissed your folds, until you felt him.

Right into your deepest part. "There you go.." You felt yourself spasm and clench around him.. a strangled noise leaving you before his hand went to your chest and Loki got you to let go and pushed you back onto the blanket... your body shaking. "Perfect little puppet aren't you?" His hand dragged down your body, stopping to pinch your nipple making your hiss and whine again... his hand slid between your thighs again, rubbing soft circles over your clit as his fist remained buried inside you. You keening, body twitching like a live wire.

His fist didn’t move- not yet- but his other hand was merciless. The pad of his thumb dragged across your clit, slow and exacting, like he was testing the response of a new instrument. And you, broken and stretched and shaking, responded just as he wanted, hips twitching, thighs trembling where the magic still held them wide, the pitiful gasp that left your throat making him chuckle darkly.

“There it is,” he murmured. “You’re learning, pet.”

He didn’t thrust, not in the traditional sense but the way his wrist twisted, how his fingers curled and shifted deep inside you.

It was worse. Better. So much.

Every movement was measured cruelty.

Every breath he let out was soft mockery.

“I wonder if they’d even recognise you now,” he purred, lips grazing your cheek as his fingers rolled lazy circles over your soaked clit. “The sweet thing who used to flutter her lashes and play at innocence from across the hall. Look at you now trembling, open around my wrist, chasing your own ruin like it’s the only thing that matters.”

You sobbed again, you didn’t know if it was from shame or pleasure or both.

But your body knew.

You could feel the tension building, slow and relentless. Your walls were fluttering around him, trying to draw him in even further, as impossible as that seemed. Your thighs clenched against the invisible hold, your back arched despite your exhaustion. It was happening again.

“Loki- please- ”

His voice was velvet-wrapped iron. “Yes, little offering. Show me what you can do with a fist inside you.”

He pressed his thumb harder, just slightly, and your climax tore through you.

It wasn’t a sweet thing. Not gentle or kind. It was savage like being split apart and remade in the same breath. Your cry was hoarse, half-scream and half-moan, as your entire body convulsed under his hand. Your cunt spasmed wildly around his wrist, clenching in desperate, greedy pulses as the wave overtook you.

He didn’t let up.

Not when your breath faltered. Not when your thighs quaked. Not even when fresh tears spilled from your eyes.

Loki watched you unravel with the hunger of a starving god- fascinated, reverent, cruel. And when you thought maybe, just maybe, it was done.

You weren’t sure when he removed his hand. One moment he was buried so deep inside you it felt like you’d never be whole again and the next, he was gone. The sudden emptiness was unbearable. Your cunt pulsed and clenched in the absence, as though panting in time with your ragged breaths.

But you did feel the press of his palm over your belly- slow, possessive- and the other hand curling behind your neck, lifting your head slightly. Warm liquid poured past your parted lips, water, maybe laced with something else. It soothed your throat, made you blink in startled confusion. A spell swept over your body, faint green light cleansing the worst of the mess, though the ache, the soreness, remained untouched.

You felt lifeless. Too warm. The heat of the fire next to you licked at your bare skin, but you couldn’t move. Couldn’t find the will to try.

His hand smoothed over your stomach once more, fingers splaying like he still wanted to leave an imprint. Then, just as cruelly gentle, he pressed a single kiss to your jaw.

“Next time, we’ll try something more advanced,” he murmured.

You blinked, slow and hazy, watching him kneel beside you. One of your hands, still numb and trembling, reached out- dragged by instinct more than thought- and brushed against the front of his trousers.

Nothing. No hardness. No arousal. Nothing.

Loki chuckled lowly at your confused, devastated expression.

“I told you,” he said, rising smoothly to his feet. “You’ll have to earn that.”

You scrambled, dazed, pulling the blanket around yourself like a shield. You didn’t know what you were feeling only that it twisted inside you like shame, like heat, like a raw and bleeding kind of hunger. After everything- after all of that- he hadn’t even...?

“But you have promise, pet,” he added lightly, buttoning his shirt like nothing had happened at all. “I’ll send the maid to help you get dressed. I think it’s time you returned home.”

You blinked again, throat tight, mind spinning.

“Can’t have my newest darling wandering the feasting hall,” he continued with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Someone might make the mistake of touching what’s mine. And we don’t want another mess tonight, do we?”

You just stared at him, stunned and aching, the tremble in your limbs growing worse. The ache between your legs throbbed- deep, insistent, cruel- and still, you didn’t know what this was. What you were now.

He was already at the door.

“I’ll have balm sent in the morning,” he said as he glanced back over his shoulder. “You’re going to be sore for a few days. Don’t touch yourself. It’ll only make the ache worse.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows across his features. Then, softly almost fondly he added, “You should be proud. Few endure such devotion on their first night.”

And then he left.

Left you by the fire, shaking. Ruined. Used.

What had you gotten yourself into?

And was there a way out?

TAGS: @tinytroublemaker @yesiamthatwierd @trojanaurora

tagging cos maybe they'd like to know: @kathren1sky-blog and @28bohemianmoons

#Loki smut #Loki x you #Dark!Loki #Loki being Loki #loki x reader #loki x female reader #loki smut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki imagine #loki x reader smut #loki x you #loki x you smut #loki x yn #loki odinson #loki fluff #Dom!Loki

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