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cake-writes · 2 years

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A Dutiful Disaster (Part Four)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Story Warnings: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Royalty, Pre-Thor (2011), Toxic Relationship, Smut, Angst, Drama, Slow Burn, Odin’s A+ Parenting, Reader is referred to as a woman and has a vagina, no Y/N usage, POC-friendly descriptors, Loki is a moody POS, Holy arguments Batman!, There is a LOT of yelling in the House of Odin, 18+

Chapter Warnings: Smut (fingering, vaginal sex, husband/wife kink, breeding kink if you squint, switchy behaviour from both of our pornstars but Loki is far more of a pleasure dom in this chapter, punishment, exhibitionism, FILTHY dirty talk, praise, humiliation), Violence, Dissociation / Derealisation

Snippet: “I do not wish to be kissed. It’s too great an intimacy for our,” you pause to consider the word, tapping your finger to your chin, “unique situation, wouldn’t you say? We are the furthest thing from lovers.”

“Oh?” Loki sounds amused by your answer – and then he drops his feet back to the floor with purpose, taking advantage of your startled jump to pull you further into his lap where you can feel the hardening length of him against your clothed core. “If not lovers, then what are we?”

“Married,” you gasp, arms clutching around his neck for fear of being dropped – or so you tell yourself.

Master List / Spotify Playlist / Part Three

For some odd reason, you find yourself longing for the guest chambers.

It’s not that your new rooms are any less grand. No, they’re even more so, in fact; but they also unfortunately lack the comfort of nostalgia with which you’ve grown so familiar. You miss the view on the northernmost side of the palace, which overlooks the perfectly manicured gardens and the upper district beyond – your home. You miss peering down at the flowers and shrubbery below, with hopes to locate the best hiding places for games with the other noble children; and, as an adult, the most secluded spots for when it all becomes a bit too much. You miss staying here with your family back when your father was still alive. You miss your father.

As a stark contrast, your new personal chambers face the east. You can see the training grounds in the distance, the mountains, the forests: lush and lovely to be sure, but not quite the same, even with a direct view of Asgard’s beautiful sunrises. Where you used to take tea with your mother and father on the small, cramped balcony of the guest quarters, now you take it alone with more than enough space for three guests, let alone thirty. It comes as an unwelcome reminder that you once had to fight and claw for respect as a lesser noble – at least until your mother’s questionable endeavours had secured your place in high society. And your fate.

And so, you learned to keep the careful mask of a diamond, forged under pressure with the fire of ambition. A wallflower no longer, tended to not with love, but with mettle; encouraged to grow not with care, but with power. A force to be reckoned with. A sight to behold. A vision triumphant.

How lonely it is at the top.

That you were able to bring along one of your ladies from your family home has come as a small comfort. While Thea has proven herself a hard worker, sparkling with youth and naiveté, Eris has been with you for centuries. She knows your preferences as well as your particularities, and has remained the one constant in your tumultuous life through thick and thin. A friendly face amongst the insidious court, or, perhaps, a friend – which is the exact reason why she doesn’t hesitate to kick your chair on her way past, arms full of your dirty laundry. Despite the evidence of fatigue forever upon her face, endless dark circles and a pasty complexion, she has always packed a wallop.

“I rather think you’re hoping to be fired,” you comment dryly, punctuated with a sip of tea.

“Please do,” Eris deadpans. Then she offers you an expectant look, which you know would be less from a desire to lose her job and more out of concern about your uncharacteristic silence over the past hour.

You sigh, placing your teacup back in its saucer. “I find myself comparing these chambers to the rooms we used to keep here at the palace.”

Predictably, she dumps the laundry on the floor at your feet and pulls up a chair, as if it’s commonplace for a servant to join her mistress at the table. “What brought that on?”

You gesture to the high ceilings, the pastel green drapery and matching gold-trimmed duvet, the large expanse of your balcony – all more exquisite than what you’ve ever had. “As splendid as all of this is, I do not particularly enjoy watching our warriors train.”

She snorts a laugh. “A Princess should be able to request other rooms, if these are not to your liking?”

“Yes, though I do not think my Prince,” you scrunch your nose, “would take kindly to such a trivial request. Particularly when he has so many other matters to attend to while I idly fret.”

“Since when do you concern yourself with the opinion of His Highness?”

You shoot her a cautionary look, which she purposely ignores.

“Have things really changed so much? You’ve only been married a day, madame.” The word oozes sarcasm, only further emphasizing that you are no longer a miss.

You roll your eyes. “I care not what he thinks of me,” comes your explanation as you absently trail your finger around the rim of your teacup – an anxious tic. “What concerns me is how easily he could make my life a living Hel if he so wishes it. It is in my best interests to keep myself in his good graces.”

The expression on her face clearly conveys her skepticism.

“It is not so impossible,” you argue. “Our conversation today was surprisingly tolerable.”

Eris pauses for a moment, considering her answer, and then she says softly, “Unlike last night.”

Last night. Your wedding night. The night your husband had left bruises on your chin in his anger.

“You forget yourself, Eris,” you snap. “Get back to work.”

Your lady-in-waiting stares at you in stunned silence, before she stands to offer you a polite curtsey and an even politer, “Yes, Your Highness.”

And with that, the sting of your title being used against you, the guilt immediately sets in.

As Eris stoops to collect the laundry, you avoid looking at her all the while. It has been quite some time since you reacted so poorly to her blunt nature, and whenever it happens, you feel terrible afterwards. An apology would be in order, but right now, it’s all you can do to focus your thoughts on other matters. That Loki had laid his hands on you in a fit of anger, however provoked – it isn’t something you wish to remember.

You would like to think that he won’t do it again, but it scares you to know that he still could.

Three quiet knocks resound upon your door some time earlier than you expect.

Rays of fading sunlight bask your chambers in colourful hues of red and orange as Thea rushes to welcome your evening visitor with Eris in tow. From the seat at your vanity, you hear your husband, first, as he bids your ladies to take their leave.

When you see him, your throat goes dry from how good Loki looks when he dresses down.

Dark tunic, soft leathers, gold trim: finery far too casual for the King’s court, yet regal enough for an evening affair. Long, black hair immaculately styled, swept back out of his face to accentuate sharp cheekbones and porcelain skin. Stunning emerald eyes, which linger upon yours for a beat too long before they slowly drop to your body.

No longer do you wear thick, stifling brocade, but something better suited for the night. Black velvet drapes over you like a second skin, accentuating every dip and curve to the point that modesty implores an additional layer or two beneath your skirts. When you cross your legs, a sneak peek of green fabric sends his eyes right back up to yours.

Another game.

“Was I not clear when I said I’d come for you at sundown?” Loki questions, the rich, low timbre of his voice sounding more like a compliment than a reprimand. His fingers gently finesse one of your decorative hairpins back into place, after which his cool fingertips tenderly trail down the nape of your neck in a way that can only be intentional. Unfortunately, your extra layers do nothing to hide the goosebumps that raise from his touch.

“The sun still shines upon us, does it not?” you remark, focusing back upon your reflection to finish applying your lipstick before you glance back at him through the mirror. Then your pretty painted lips pull into a coquettish little grin. “Have you never waited for a woman to ready herself, husband? I find that difficult to believe when one considers the various rumours of your conquests.”

Loki studies your face with an unreadable expression, and then he responds evenly, “I’ve had about as many… conquests,” the word makes him grimace, “as the number of suitors you’ve so joyously kept in wait. Or so I hear.”

Your jaw drops at the insinuation.

Loki raises a brow at your show of disbelief. “Surely you aren’t so naïve to think yourself immune to gossip, petal. Shall I rattle off a list of names, or would you prefer to keep those to yourself?”

A jab.

You know that there is no shame in it, your promiscuity, for such long, arduous lives do you and your people lead. Sex without attachment has always been readily enjoyed upon Asgard, a favoured pastime to distract from the monotony of millennia – yet Loki would condemn you for partaking in one of life’s greatest pleasures as if he hasn’t done the same.

Hypocrite.

Your stool abruptly screeches against the marble floor as you stand to smooth the wrinkles from your dress, before you turn to issue him a stern warning. “Shame me, husband, and you will dine alone this evening.”

You shove past him, then, feeling entirely too cornered at your vanity. He’s too tall, you think; too imposing. Not to mention he has proven himself volatile on many an occasion.

Loki lets out an exasperated sigh and reaches out to stop you.

You clam up when he makes contact and warily peer down at his hand – at the cool, slim fingers wrapped around your wrist so loosely that you know you could pull yourself free – before you level him with an icy glare. “Unhand me.”

No sooner than you utter the command does he release you, instantaneously, as if he’s only just realised what he’s done. You snatch your hand back to yourself and massage your wrist instinctively, like he’d hurt you, bruised your tender flesh as he had last night.

A flash of alarm comes across his face and his eyes flicker down to take in the guarded way you cradle it to your chest, as if that might offer some modicum of protection from him. And then he swears – once, low, under his breath, before meeting your gaze once more with genuine concern. “Is there pain?”

“What?” You answer his question like it’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard, brows knit together with disdain. “Of course not. You hardly touched me.”

One moment passes, then two, and you watch as – something, some recognition – comes over him, evident in how his posture stiffens, how his jaw sets, how his arms cross over his chest. Defensive.

“You fear me,” Loki observes, purposefully neutral.

Your eyes widen for a split second, before you avert them to scoff. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

When you finally turn back to him, you find him keenly analysing your reaction as if he’s waiting for some crack to appear in your façade. Your pulse quickens at the accuracy of his assumption, not that you’d ever admit to it. Instead, you defend yourself by any means necessary. You have to. You aren’t safe.

“As if anyone could ever feel anything for you but hatred,” you sneer.

It’s uncalled for, you realise. Nasty. Spiteful.

You don’t apologise.

Loki stares at you for a long, tense, uncomfortable pause, his carefully measured neutrality waxing cold. It sends a shiver down your spine, how he looks down his nose at you; coupled with a jolt of electricity that sparks something carnal deep within, as if you might derive some sick sort of pleasure out of his utter contempt of you. Because that’s what it is, contempt. Or adrenaline, you lie to yourself, as evidenced by the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

When he turns on his heel to leave, your stomach lurches.

“Come,” he calls over his shoulder, eerily calm after what you’d just said to him. Too calm. “I promised you a meal. Do not have me break that promise.”

You can’t refuse.

The crisp staccato of your heels against marble is the only thing that punctures the unnerving silence as Loki leads you to wherever he plans to dine with you, privately, as if you don’t hate each other, hate your circumstances, hate everything that has brought the two of you together.

And, well, you don’t. Not entirely.

You don’t care about your husband. You don’t care about your marriage. It’s all a means to an end, a hazing, a torture for you to grow accustomed to. Nothing more. You want nothing to do with him, yet here you are, trailing behind him like an obedient dog. Bound to him by chains.

That is what you hate.

As you glower at the back of his head, you hope that maybe you’ll be able to bore a hole into it. It’s a violent sort of daydream, sidetracked by your unwitting admiration of how glossy his hair is, how soft. When that annoying itch returns to your fingertips, you give your hands a quick shake to dispel it.

No success.

At long last, Loki stops – turns – catches you scowling at him before you can even try to pretend otherwise. “Hate me if you wish,” he drawls, boredom evident, “though if you intend to glare daggers at me for the rest of the evening, then you may miss the view.”

“What view?”

After which, of course, you piece together what he means.

You hadn’t noticed the exceedingly large balcony upon which the two of you now stand, nor the well-worn tile beneath your feet in varying shades of white and grey, aged by the elements. You hadn’t noticed the old sandstone railing, bracketed by a pair of ancient pillars wrapped in ivy, with vines climbing high towards a ceiling they’ll never reach. And you certainly hadn’t noticed the rosy glow cast upon Asgard as the sun descends beyond the horizon, how the golden shimmer of the skyline shifts to copper in the light, how the waters reflect a most magnificent hue of dusky pink.

It’s astonishingly beautiful.

The air leaves your lungs with a whoosh.

And then you spot the cosy table for two in the corner of the balcony, adorned in all manner of plates and bowls and cutlery, and, in the middle, a pair of candles waiting to be lit. Although your supper evidently awaits, Loki instead walks up to the edge of the balcony to look out at the distant city below. Not at you.

“Let me be clear,” he begins sharply, leaning forward to rest his arms upon the balustrade as he watches the sunset. “If you believe that I am any happier about this than you are, then you are sorely mistaken.” Then he spares you a glance. “Surely my wife would have realised that by now, clever as you are.”

Bitter. Mocking. A compliment in theory, though his patronising tone nearly sets you off all over again. It’s almost like he’s trying to bait you, provoke you into reacting like he’s done so often in the past. And then it hits you—

He is.

Somehow seeing through his mercurial behaviour quells your temper long enough to join him, one hip propped against the railing. You say nothing, and offer him even less, because that’s what he wants – a reaction – so you give him none.

Not for long.

“Why are we here, Loki?” you ask when your patience wears thin. “Knowing you, there must be another motive than to learn what makes me tick.”

Because he couldn’t want to learn about you. He despises you just as much as you do him, so of course he would have an ulterior motive. He always does. He always will.

Loki’s soft laughter meets your ears in a velvety caress. “Clever, indeed. You figured that out sooner than I thought you would. Yes, I would propose an arrangement—unless, of course, you hate me as much as you claim.”

You can just hear the arrogance lacing his words, smug and deliberate.

Bastard.

His taunts invoke a knee-jerk reaction to shove your elbow none-too-gently into his side. As fearful as you are of him, of his anger, you can’t help yourself; Loki knows all of the right buttons to push to invoke the reaction he seeks, and he takes advantage of that fact every single time the two of you converse. Always has. Always will.

The little grunt he releases at the unexpected impact becomes your sole spoil of war.

“Out with it,” you hiss.

This is just another one of his schemes. It’s as infuriating as it is disappointing.

Loki tuts once, twice – affectionately, almost – and you regain your senses just enough to realise how poorly you’ve just behaved. So much for staying in his good graces – a realisation which must have shown upon your face, for a cheshire grin comes across his own. “I suspect that mouth of yours will get you into trouble one day, petal. Mark my words.”

You take it for what it is: a clear warning, despite the teasing lilt of its delivery. You’d do well to heed it. Of course, the double meaning sends a rush of heat through you, from your face, to your core, all the way to your toes, though whether it’s from embarrassment or something else, you refuse to ponder. He isn’t worth your energy.

“Now that you’ve finished your tantrum,” Loki says, pointedly, and you bristle all over again, “I would propose that we play the perfect couple to the public, just as we did this morning. Privately, you may do as you wish. Occupy your time with whatever it is you enjoy.” He quirks a brow at you. “You do have hobbies, do you not?”

You huff. “Of course I do.”

The corners of Loki’s eyes crinkle with delight from your obvious irritation. “Yes. Of course you do.”

“And how might you benefit from such an arrangement?” you counter. “You wouldn’t have suggested this without a clear benefit in mind. Or a goal. What is it?”

“Perhaps I only seek the pleasure of your company?”

You bite out the two syllables of his name in a tone that clearly indicates you’ve had enough. “Loki.”

Loki eyes you cautiously, less amused now. “I would hazard a guess,” he says after a pensive moment, “that in many respects, your mother is not unlike my father. Her expectations far exceed your capabilities as well as your desires. Am I wrong?”

You hate how perceptive he is. “I suppose not.”

“Then I would benefit in the same way that you do. There is a certain freedom in providing the bare minimum, wouldn’t you say? Particularly to an overachiever.”

It’s strange, Loki’s honesty. It never fails to catch you off guard, and this time, it disarms you.

There is, however, one expectation that he does not acknowledge.

“Assuming I accept—and trust me when I say that there will be much deliberation,” you make a point to add, “then what would become of our—” Except the words are far more difficult to say in such an open, relaxed setting. Unnerved, you look away to find that the reds and pinks on the horizon have slowly faded to a lovely twilight blue, now. Then you clear your throat. “Our duty to Asgard?”

A long pause follows.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“Are you so eager to have a child?” Loki questions, far more serious than before. You can see him watching you in your periphery, which sets you on edge.

“Not eager, no,” you answer, tracing anxious patterns upon the sandstone with your fingertips, “but that is exactly why our marriage was arranged, is it not? Your brother refuses to take a wife, so the duty falls to you to preserve the royal lineage. To us.”

Us.

It feels strange on your tongue.

“And what is it that you wish for?”

The low husk of his voice implores you to finally meet his eyes once more, and you immediately regret it. The intensity hidden within those gorgeous pools of green only adds more kindling to your burning desire. You try to convince yourself that you don’t want this, not with him – that it’s a duty to your realm, a torture to endure – but the dull, familiar throbbing between your thighs paints a decidedly different picture.

You lick your lips. “I wish to be of use in the only way a princess can be.”

The exact moment his pupils dilate will forever be cemented in your memory.

“As I said,” Loki drawls, pushing off of the balustrade, and your nails come to a screeching halt against the sandstone when you feel his presence hovering at your back. His cool fingers gently sweep the hair away from your neck before he murmurs against your skin, “That mouth of yours is troublesome, sweet. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You swallow thickly. “Perhaps you might persuade me. If you are up to the task, that is.”

Banter.

Loki snakes an arm around your waist to pull you flush against him, to which the breath hitches in your throat. You can feel how hard he is against your backside, feel his lithe, solid body against you as he traps you against the railing. Then comes the wet, slow, sensual drag of his lips upon the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Tell me where you’d have me... persuade you.”

And just like that, you give in.

You shove his hand down from your waist to between your thighs, where the thick fabric of your skirts gets in the way. Even through them, the pressure feels delightful.

“Norns,” Loki groans, rucking up the front of your skirts so that anyone on the distant streets below might see what lies beneath; not that you particularly care with him so intent on – persuading you. “I would have liked to consummate our marriage in a bed, properly, but if this is how needy you are,” his hand snakes inside of your underclothes, where his fingers slide through your glistening folds, “how wet you are at the thought of being used, then perhaps all of Asgard will bear witness to it. Yes?”

“Yes,” comes your pleasured sigh – and then your husband roughly breaches your dripping hole with two of his slim fingers, all at once, all the way to the knuckle. Your head lulls back against his shoulder from the sudden intrusion as you choke out, “Fuck—”

“What happened to my sweet, delicate petal?” Loki taunts, nipping at your earlobe as he slowly, teasingly fucks you with his fingers. “I wonder, because it seems my wife,” the word makes you clench involuntarily, “hasn’t been very forthcoming with me about her proclivities.”

“You didn’t ask,” you sass. It comes out breathy; weak.

You think you feel him smile against your skin, feel the barest rumble of laughter in his chest – at least until he sinks his teeth into tender junction of your neck and shoulder. When the punishment wrenches a pained moan from your throat, he soothes the ache with his tongue in a way that’s tender, almost kind.

And then he curls his fingers up into your g-spot, hard.

Another punishment.

Your eyelids flutter.

“You deemed me insatiable,” he chastises, increasing the pace, “yet you would come undone as all of Asgard watches. Isn’t that right, darling?”

You can’t think. You can’t breathe. The only thing you can do is cry out in pleasure and grind your hips into his hand in a fit of desperation as he plays your body like an instrument.

“I said,” Loki grabs your ass with his free hand and gives one cheek the barest hint of a slap – gentle, testing the waters, “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, please, yes,” you babble mindlessly.

“Please?” he echoes, laced with condescension. “Tell me what you want and I’ll consider it.”

“More, Loki, I want more, husband, please—”

At that, Loki lets out a satisfied hum and slides a third digit inside, stretching you further, to which you let out a hiss from the pleasant burn. Then he leans in to suck a bruise upon your neck, a mark, a claim, and your hand tangles in his hair to pull him closer.

“So honest,” he praises, cool breath fanning against your ear, though it does nothing to drown out the wet, sloppy sounds of your cunt. “Would you like to come on my fingers?”

You would, of course you would, but this was meant to fulfil your duty, nothing more. What escapes instead is a broken gasp of, “W-Wait.”

Loki immediately stills.

Your back arches from hypersensitivity when he moves to withdraw, but you latch onto his wrist to prevent him from doing so. You dazedly shift your head to look at him, really look – at the sensuous flush on his cheeks, the concerned furrow of his brow, the stunning emerald of his irises as he does the same with you.

It’s intense.

It’s intimate.

You whisper, “On your cock.”

The way he snarls your name sounds positively feral.

“You will finish on my fingers,” he orders, the fingertips of his free hand finally, finally circling your clit. You squeal and squirm at the harsh, sudden pressure, but he holds you firmly place and presses on. “Be good and I’ll give you my cock. Now stay still.”

“Loki, it’s—” you whimper, fingernails digging into his forearm, “it’s too much—”

“Then tell me to stop, sweet. Use that colourful vocabulary of yours.”

Your knees go weak as you start to feel that familiar coil tightening in your abdomen that signals your impending release. Tears form in the corners of your eyes from the blinding pleasure, and it’s all you can do to string a couple of words together; certainly not anything eloquent. “I-I can’t—”

“You can,” Loki challenges, authoritative, “and you will. You want me to fuck you, darling? Right here, as our people revel in the streets to celebrate our marriage? Then come.”

A high-pitched whine is all the response you can manage as he works you higher, with three fingers buried deep inside of you, angled just the right way to make you scream, paired with brisk, punishing swipes to your bundle of nerves, over and over and over, until—

“Let go, sweet girl. My sweet, delicate, beloved princess—” his whisper-soft laughter puffs against your ear, “Come undone for me.”

The coil snaps.

With praise and mockery in equal measure, Loki’s honeyed words send you careening over the edge with a keening wail and a distinctly wet gush. Your thighs forcefully slam shut, trapping his hand between them, though the fingertips upon your clit are still free to move; and move they do, with featherlight strokes as he works you through your peak.

“Ah, there we go. Ride it out, darling. That’s it.”

Your vision blurs as you slump back against him, weightless, boneless, breathless. As Loki eases his fingers out of your slick heat, you whimper at the loss.

Shushing you gently, he nuzzles his nose into your jaw, affectionate in his aftercare. “Are you well?”

Did I hurt you? would undoubtedly be what he means.

Words fail you with your mind so blissfully blank, so the only thing you can think to do is grab his hand and take his fingers into your mouth with a satisfied hum – slowly, appreciatively, to make your point that yes, you are perfectly well. As you clean them with your tongue, you can taste the tang of your essence along with the salt from his skin.

Not for long.

A startled gasp rips from you as Loki turns – manhandles – you to face him, and, in one fluid motion, he hoists you up by the thighs and sits you down atop the railing.

“You are trouble.”

Low. Dangerous. Cautionary.

A delicate flush of desire trails from his cheeks to beneath the collar of his tunic. His long, dark hair falls in messy waves, and when you reach out to tuck a stray lock behind his ear, he gently captures your wrist to press the softest of kisses to your palm – all the while watching you with a dark, lustful sort of reverence.

How thoroughly wrecked your husband has become, just from bringing you to rapture. He must be aching for release. Desperate for it.

How lovely.

“Come here,” you beckon, shamelessly pulling him towards you with your legs around his waist. Loki stumbles forward just a little and braces his hands against the railing on either side of you, but it’s not enough to prevent his clothed hardness from pressing against your soaked core, especially when you roll your hips against him in a slow, purposeful grind.

Loki exhales a shuddering breath and rests his forehead against yours. “Darling,” he says, voice rough with need, “Don’t tease.”

Of course you’re tempted to tease him more, but he’s been so generously focused on your pleasure that you’d rather express your gratitude in another way. Your hands make quick work of the lacing of his trousers, and you pull him out with ease, only to admire his beautiful cock.

Soft, velvety skin and prominent veins. Red, sensitive tip just begging to be touched, licked, sucked to your heart’s desire. You give him a couple of cursory pumps and study the effortless glide of his foreskin, how he responds to the lightest touch, how he reacts when you sweep your thumb over his weeping slit, and the soft, breathy sounds you coax from him shoot straight to your core.

“How unexpectedly generous you are, husband. Would you like your reward?” you offer salaciously, hooking two fingers through the gusset of your underclothes to pull them to the side, baring yourself to him. Loki’s focus immediately drops to your glistening cunt, and you feel him twitch in your hand.

His tongue wets his lips before he raises his eyes back to yours, pupils blown, and then, only then does his carefully measured control finally snap.

“Generous,” he rasps. “Not patient.”

Loki swiftly pries your fingers away to grip himself, instead, so that he can sluice his cock through your soaked folds in whatever way he sees fit. It feels like heaven, and judging by the pleasured knit of his brows, he seems to agree. His free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, fingers at your nape, thumb on your pulse; not so much a bid for dominance but one for connection, to brace you for what’s to come. It also forces you to hold his gaze, and when you do, you lose yourself in it. In him.

“Do you long for me inside you? Quickly.”

Serious. Urgent. Not teasing. Not now.

Your stomach flutters in anticipation. “Yes.”

He glances down at your mouth, then, where he observes the pillowy bite of your teeth into your lower lip. He’s enchanted a beat longer than you’re comfortable with. You know that look.

“Don’t you dare.”

Loki's attention snaps back up to your face almost like you’d slapped him. There’s a distinct bite to his tone when he answers, “I haven’t forgotten.”

A lie.

“Loki—”

“Hush.” He brings his lips to your temple, instead, and murmurs against your sweat-slicked skin, “I will not kiss you without your consent. I would sooner show you my, ah… generosity.” A soft laugh escapes him as he meets your eyes again – beautiful, captivating green. “May I fuck you now, darling? Or do you intend to make me suffer?”

Something about the way he speaks makes your heart ache. You ignore it and whisper, “Fuck me. Please.”

“I rather hoped you might say that.”

Slowly, carefully, Loki lines himself up. He uses the head of his cock to give your clit a light slap, teasing, making you jolt just a little, before he dips ever-so-slightly inside, just the tip—

And then, suddenly, the palace rocks with what feels like an earthquake.

The plates and cutlery on the little table for two crash and shatter to the floor. As the ground shakes beneath you, you’re thrown off your precarious perch upon the balustrade and teeter backwards, over the ledge, away from him – and a startled gasp wrenches from your throat.

You feel his blunt nails, first, as they dig into your thigh, scratching, scrambling for purchase, followed by his arm around your lower back which he uses to grab you, hold you, yank you right off of the railing and into him for safety. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, how hard you land against his deceptively solid chest. Loki’s breathing comes out just as unevenly as yours, you find, as he cradles your head to his chest with one large, protective hand. With the other, he strokes your back in soft, soothing reassurances.

You're safe. I've got you.

Your pulse bounds from the near-miss. With your ear next to his heart, you hear his own pounding a similar staccato – except, he doesn’t move, doesn’t check to make sure that you’re alright.

Something is off.

You peer up at your husband through your lashes, only to find that those pretty eyes of his are narrowed, now, trained upon something down below. His lips press into a grim line at what he sees.

Something is wrong.

Secure in his embrace, you cast a glance behind you only to see smoke billowing from the lower district. Flames lick at the cramped quarters, the buildings, the homes, and, if you strain your ears, you can hear the screams drifting up from the streets. Screams of terror.

“I must go,” Loki says quickly, releasing you in order to tuck himself away.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real. Your thoughts race as you try to comprehend what’s just happened: an explosion, perhaps, or an attack. “Were we just—?”

“Yes,” he answers, tying the laces of his trousers with urgency. His eyes raise just enough to glimpse your clothing before he turns back to the task at hand. “Straighten your skirts. The palace will be swarmed with guards.”

It’s all you can do to nod, dumbfounded, as you try to make yourself look somewhat presentable, doing your best to ease the wrinkles from your dress. The velvet feels strange against your clammy palms, fake, surreal.

“Turn around,” Loki instructs.

The gentle authority in his voice implores you to listen, after which he makes quick work of whatever fabric had been rumpled in the back – sharp, brisk tugs, reminiscent of the way your old governess used to secure your corsets. Then Loki places a hand on your shoulder to bid you to face him once more, after which he gives you one last once-over. When his hand finally drops back to his side, you can only assume your appearance meets his expectations.

Instead of offering gratitude, however, the only thing you can manage is a shaky, “What can I do?”

“Can you fight?” he asks. You shake your head. “Heal?” Another shake. Loki pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration before he sighs. “My chambers would be closer than yours. Safer. You will make your way there at once, and barricade yourself inside until I come for you. Yes?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes.”

Loki studies your face for a moment, and then he nods, seemingly satisfied with your answer. “Come.”

When he holds out his hand to you, you take it without a second thought. For the first time, his skin feels warm to the touch, and you soon find comfort in the quiet confidence with which he leads you back inside – through the winding corridors which start to look just a little more off with every step, no doubt in part because of the loud clamouring of soldiers sounding through the halls. Shouted orders. Clattering armour. Metallic footsteps. Preparations for battle.

While your own feet take one step in front of the other, you don’t feel like you’re the one controlling them; rather, they seem to move of their own accord, and you can only watch. It’s strange. It’s off. It’s wrong.

A group of Einherjar approaches, not that you even notice until you hear Loki’s sharp voice, “How many casualties?”

It takes a moment to register that your husband isn’t talking to you.

“At least ten,” one of the guards responds. “We’ve just started to clear the wreckage.”

The wreckage. Nausea pools in the pit of your stomach.

“And the healers?”

“Already on their way. The Allmother is doing triage as we speak.”

Loki hums in approval. “Good. I will join her.”

In this moment, your husband seems every part the Asgardian Prince you’ve never seen him to be. The warrior. The ruler. The tactician. Loki oozes calm, confident authority – radiates it, even, and your heart swells with a sudden sense of appreciation that he will be part of the solution, if not the command.

He snaps his fingers, then, and gestures to two of the guards. “You two. You will escort the Princess to my chambers. Make haste. I think you need not be reminded that if so much as a single hair of hers is harmed—”

But Loki’s threat trails off when his attention falls back upon you mid-sentence. You can’t even begin to imagine what sort of expression you must have had on your face for that to happen.

“I’m—“ Your voice comes out unevenly from fear, and you clear your throat to dispel it. “I am sure they will try their very best to protect me. Do not fret.”

For credibility’s sake, you offer him a reassuring smile.

When Loki’s gaze softens on yours, however, you know he’s seen right through your façade. He tugs you to him with your joined hands and presses a kiss to the top of your head, just once, before releases you with a gentle push forward toward your new personal guards. “Go. Wait for my word.”

You nod.

He gives you one last lingering look and spins on his heel to leave. Long, brisk strides follow, and you see his posture straighten, notice his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides – adrenaline, you suspect – before the words unexpectedly bubble up from your throat, “Be—Be careful.”

That gives him pause.

As Loki turns his eyes back to you, the mischievous glint within them holds a tinge of something decidedly more chaotic. Ruthless. The brave warrior, you realise. The skillful mage.

He takes slow, languid, backward steps as he addresses you, hands clasped behind his back. “Always,” he answers lightly, as if he’s discussing the weather. “Except, perhaps, when my wife and I dine alfresco. I do hope tomorrow’s breakfast offers similar perils.”

The choked noise that escapes you is nothing short of indignant.

As your husband rounds the corner, the comfort of his laughter remains.

Part Five

#loki x reader #loki imagine #loki laufeyson #loki #loki smut

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