The back half to episode 4 has a powerful third act vibe to it. Like, if this were a movie, Loki and Sylvie fighting the T.V.A. officers in the Time Keepers' chamber would make for a thrilling finale.
We've got our desperate eleventh hour followed by the surprise turnaround, leaving Loki and Sylvie now armed and ready to fight right there in front of their goal. Sylvie even gets to have a fateful showdown with Ravonna, the officer who ruined her life and is now administrator of the entire organization.
You could legit end the story here. This has all the energy of a Marvel Movie climactic final battle, culminating in Loki and Sylvie decapitating a Time Keeper.
But. We aren't done yet. And so the Time Keepers themselves are revealed to be just another lie. Another illusion. Another layer of deception compounded upon deception.
This is where you end up when you devote yourself unquestioningly to a mythologized figure. When you let someone else tell you what's good and what's right, and you accept it as right simply because this figure you respect said so.
(There's an obvious religious element to the point being made here but people also mythologize historical figures and sometimes even other people alive at the same time as them.)
It's easy to just let someone else tell you what to do and how to think. But then one day you wake up, and you realize that the figure on the pedestal was just a robot puppet all along. (Or worse; You never do.)
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This is for the two (!) anons that asked for Keeper!ghost and kept!reader’s first time.
You wait a day after he gets back from his last trip. You’ve… missed him? It’s weird to admit, even if just to yourself. You could justify that your body misses him but it’s a bit more than that…
Not to say your body didn’t miss him, though. It did. You practically climbed him when he came in the door, made him drop his bag just to support all your weight as you shoved his mask off and demanded to know if he’s injured. He’s not, but you still gave him a day to sleep off the mission.
And now it’s morning and you’re climbing into his bed naked, appreciating how the morning light highlights his stupidly handsome features. He was awake the minute you walked in the room but he lets you get all the way up before opening his eyes.
“Well.” He says and then stops because he’s too busy starin. You huff, wiggling up against him. He’s in just a pair of underwear and you rub your body all along his, luxuriating in scarred skin against yours.
“You’re being sweet this morning,” he notes.
You hum, nip lightly at his wrist when he threads his fingers in your hair.
“You were gone too long,” you say.
“Was only a month.”
“Too long.”
He chuckles as you climb onto him, kneading at his defined chest.
“You owe me.”
He arches his eyebrows, pets soothingly up your thighs and ribs, then down again. Over and over.
“What do you want, feral?”
“You.”
He rubs his thumb at your hip. “Yeah? You’ve got me here. All my attention, my love, my energy.”
You flush down your chest. “Yeah and I want it all fucking me.”
He blinks, just once.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” You hiss the ‘s’ sound, grinding on his lap. “So gimme.”
He chuckles, palms gently but firmly holding you still. “Alright, pretty, but I’ve gotta get you ready.”
“Nooooo.”
“It’s not a negotiation, little one. If you want my cock inside this gorgeous pussy, you have to cum twice on my fingers first. Not going to hurt you.”
And you bite him for that, but he’s not going to budge so you let him. It’s not like you’re going to complain about extra orgasms after all. He’s brilliant with his hands, petting and stroking at your soaked walls, stretching you so perfectly while toying with your clit.
You cum twice easily - almost reach a third before you whine and scratch at his biceps, little nails leaving livid marks behind.
“Want it, gimme, you promised, Si.” You chant. “Want it, it’s mine.”
“Yes it is,” he coos, sitting up so that you can hold onto his shoulders, brace yourself up on weak knees. “Easy now, don’t rush.”
He won’t let you rush, damn him. Settles you down inch by torturous inch, distracting you with licking kisses and teases at your swollen clit. You flutter around him, so wet that you’re dripping down his shaft, his balls, pooling on the blankets.
When he finally bottoms out, you instantly try to start moving, want to feel him ruining you. But he holds you down, squirming and whimpering, pressed tight against him.
“Not yet, you’ll hurt yourself,” he reminds.
He only shushes you when you protest that you don’t care. When he finally eases up, you push your weight forward, flattening him against the bed, hands braced on his broad chest. It changes the angle just so and makes you see STARS.
“I’ll do it,” you say, voice only shaking a little.
He murmurs encouragingly, palms light on your thighs as you start to rock. It feels so fucking GOOD.
“Like you were made just for me,” you babble, delirious.
He croons that of course he was, he’s here for you, to take care of you. Helps you find a good rhythm that has you grinding your clit against the downy blond hair above his cock. It’s a lot - too much really after already cumming twice - but you don’t stop even as tears slip down your cheeks, highlighted by the soft sunlight.
He feels so so good, fills you up so nicely. The head of his cock curves against your walls and rubs so perfectly against that spot inside you. You moan and gasp with it, nipping absently at his neck and collarbones.
Ride the edge for what feels like hours before you make a whiny, high pitched noise.
“What is it, pretty? What’s wrong? Are you alright?” Simon asks, genuinely concerned.
“I can’t…” you huff, trying to improve the angle but no that’s worse. “I can’t…. Si, I wanna….”
He catches on, croons gently to keep you from tipping into genuine distress.
“Can I help?”
You nod, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration. And then he rolls his hips. A slow filthy grind that presses and rubs just right.
“Yes, that!! Again again, please,” you breathe.
You come apart barely thirty seconds later, jolting and shaking, collapse on his chest with a wet sob, back still arched to keep him inside. He strokes your spine through it, eases the aftershocks as you squeeze him so, so tightly.
“O-okay,” you murmur after a minute, sitting up a bit and looking utterly ruined.
“Done?” He asks, about to help you off.
The sound of you whacking him echoes through the bedroom. He stops, tilts his head at your glare.
“Finish,” you demand, clenching down and smirking when his eyes flutter. “C’mon, I want you to cum in me before breakfast.”
You stay on top, but three mind-shattering orgasms have basically turned you into a ragdoll. He easily drags you up and down his cock and you’re happy to laxly follow along and squeeze down every time he pulls out, milking him. You stare dreamily at his jumping muscles and make little noises at the oversensitivity, freely crying but clinging to him.
When he cums, you moan like you’ve finished again too, tilting your head back as he twitches and spills, overflowing onto his own thighs. You fall limp against him while he shudders through the last of it.
“That what you wanted?” He asks.
“Mhmm”
“Are you alright? Not sore?”
“Mhmm.”
“A bath while I make breakfast?”
You consider that offer, then shake your head and press your forehead to his chest. “Bath and then breakfast.”
He catches your meaning instantly. “Alright, little one. Let’s get cleaned up.”
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