There is not much in Asgard that reminds you of home.
Home, with its red sands and beautifully cruel sun; home, with its large, lumbering creatures of shaggy, caramel fur and gentle nature; home, with its flourishing, blue oases, its bright, leafy trees and vibrant flowers that bloom even in shadow. Those flowers, with their stunning variation of species and colour and size and shape, were used to heal, to celebrate, to decorate. When you were young, your governess would crush small purple blossoms up and mix it with syrup and ice during the summer. It was a refreshing escape from the humid air.
During the winter, the temperatures would drop considerably. The sand would frost over, and the summer flowers would shrivel and die. In their place grew their winter sisters; tall, with thin stalks and blue, translucent petals. The palace, in all it’s sandstone glory, would be covered with furs and pelts until the first breath of spring. Lemon and ginger tea and cinnamon bread would be brought to your chambers every evening, and you would spend the night reading and feasting away.
Here, though, the summers and winters are mild. In the summer you must wear a silk shawl and sleep with one too many sheets; in the winter, you would catch your death underneath the beautiful fur capes and robes of home. There were too many differences that sneaked up on you, creeping onto your shoulders, making your smile limpen and your gaze turn longing. If the fondness with which you spoke of home was noticed, it was not mentioned.
Your husband was one of the things that quite literally kept you from insanity. In the months that had passed since your marriage you had grown to see Loki Odinson as something of home -- not quite home, but almost close; slowly, and only with a patience you did not know your husband possessed, you were brought from your shell, nerves soothed and expectations of a cruel marriage shattered with the brush of his fingers against the palm of your hand. He was surprisingly gentle and attentive when he wished to be. You had not seen the fearful Lord of Lies that decimated the battle field. You did not hope to see him, either.
The silver-tongued prince was so Asgardian, and yet, strangely, not. With his midnight locks and mischievous smile, Loki Odinson was able to offer you something that these golden buildings and lavish life could not. In his eyes, the colour of green grass and sumptuous silks, you found something akin to home. Maybe it teetered on love. How were you to know? Your experience with love is restricted to your parents’ relationship, (a marriage of convenience not unlike your own) and a kiss with the stable boy when you were 11.
You'd only been married a few months -- you couldn’t yet know. What you did know was that the warmth in your stomach, the fluttering of your heart that was set aflame when you thought of him, was not nothing. And so, you supposed, that meant it was something.
In Loki, the trickster prince, you found refuge from loneliness, from alienation. He didn't have to speak to calm your worries; many a night you would read in your bed while he worked in his study just a few metres away. He didn't have to make a noise – though, sometimes, if you concentrated, you were sure you could feel his magic; a sort of warmth that ran up your spine, and was chaos and peace all at once.
Though even that wore off with Loki’s departure to a far off world, one of savages and plague and drought. Together, with his brother, the Warriors Three, Lady Sif and battalions of sorcerers and soldiers alike, they rode off to liberate its people. You were left in this gilded cage of a palace, staring out of windows forlornly, walking the halls with a book tucked underneath your arm but no will to read it. You longed for vermilion sands and bright lapis lazuli blossoms. For your mother and father. For your sister, although you had not seen her even when you were back home. She had been married off quite a while ago. It was unlikely that you would ever see her again.
You longed for home, because home was not here. Not quite yet.
Loki and the rest return victorious, as all knew they would. It is an excuse to feast, and feast largely they do. The great hall is filled to the brim with decadent foods made by the best cooks in all the nine realms; flaky pastries and sausages bursting with flavour, smoked and salted fish and fresh fruits and creamy cheeses. Buttery, golden bread rolls, and soups and stews that seemed to never grow cold; and ale, of course. Lots and lots of ale, and mead, and wine, and any other alcohol that your mind could conjure up. Asgard had it, and lots of it – and it had very enthusiastic warriors to drink it all, too.
You feast with Loki, picking at your food and shooting him a smile when his eyes flit from conversation to you. He does it quite often, you find, and halfway through Volstagg’s story of how the largest boar in the land was slain, he takes your hand in his beneath the table. A wave of calm washes over you, one that surely could not come from you, but you catch Loki’s eyes and find they're glowing lime with seiðr.
The occasion reminds you of your wedding day, in a sickeningly nostalgic way; how you had sat at the top of the table and watched, detached, as those around you had fun. You can’t find it within you to muster a true, genuine smile, just as you couldn't when you had been wed, but you do try, to your credit. It's simply a pity that your husband is the God of Lies, and you are quite possibly the worst liar and actress in all the nine realms.
You don’t see how his doting expression morphs to one very unlike the infamous raven-haired prince -- one of concern, though not for himself. He can see the sadness that creases your brow, the turns the corners of your lips towards the ground and makes your head bow. You are much too stunning both in mind and appearance to be in such a state, he thinks.
When the feasting reaches its peak and Thor begins to dance on the tables, you lead Loki to your chambers. He takes you in the comfort of your own bed, in a way that you hadn’t thought possible for him; soft and sweet, caring and gentle. It was a hunger you desperately needed satiated all throughout his time away, and you savour the feeling of your husband against you, inside you, around you. It is unexpectedly successful in lifting your heart, even just momentarily.
He skillfully pulls your orgasm from you – and he holds you heart-stoppingly close as his own climax rolls over his limbs, with all the meticulousness of a man not used to doing so. It is only after you’ve both collapsed to the bed, appetite fulfilled and limbs weakened with pleasure and fatigue, that Loki speaks on it.
“What ails you, my wife?” He murmurs, brushing his lips over your shoulder, feather light. You lay on your side, back to his chest, lungs heaving to recapture the breath that he so easily stole from you.
“Hm?” You mumble back, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead.
“I see that something troubles you. Has something bothered you while I was gone? Have I…?” He trails off uncertainly, and your heart aches for him. You weren’t sure that there was much Loki could do apart from simply being with you.
“No, no,” you say, looking over your shoulder at him. “No, you’re perfect, Loki. I… I simply… I suppose I miss home, is all.”
He says nothing, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes darkening in a way that tells you that he doesn’t believe the forced lightness with which you describe your homesickness. But he doesn’t press any longer, and for that you’re grateful.
You are – for the hundredth time in the passed few months – reminded of the horrible men the girls you grew up with have married, and how they would surely strike their wives at any sign of ungratefulness. But this is Loki, and Loki of Asgard is not a tyrant – and so, you are free to speak your mind. It's a luxury few can afford.
“It’s something I’ll just have to deal with, I suppose,” you say with a laugh that doesn't quite fit in your throat right. “Even your Asgardian healers wouldn't be able to cure this sickness. Not in anyway that I know of.”
Again, silence. Then, his hands raising from your hips, to your ribs, to your chest to cup your breast in his hand. Not to instigate anything, but just to feel you. To feel your flesh and skin and warmth beneath his fingers; you yourself restrain a shiver as he leans in to nose the back of your neck. He is strong and weak, hard and soft at the same time. Vulnerable and invulnerable. A delightfully dizzying concoction that turns your thoughts on their head. “Tell me of home, my flower.”
And so, cheeks flushing at his term of endearment, you do. Of the oases and the desert-dwelling creatures and the festivals that marked the changing of seasons and the little delicacies that could not be found anywhere else in the nine realms.
He is surprisingly attentive, his thumb rubbing the underside of your breast gently. When you tell him of the time you sneaked out of the palace to feed those large, lumbering creatures and got caught in your hasty return, he laughs against your neck; in return, he recalls the time he turned himself into a snake and stabbed his brother when they were children. Without even realising it, Loki has stolen your thoughts from their dark, shadowy dwelling and brought them to the light.
X
“What is this?” You ask in confusion, running your hands over the fabric that lay across your lap. It is the morning after the feast – or, more accurately, the afternoon after the feast. The night had been long and tiresome, evident from the marks imprinted into your skin and the ache between your legs.
Maybe Loki had been attempting to fuck the sadness out of you. It certainly had worked, at least for the night, because you woke up well rested and glowing as brightly as the golden halls of Asgard.
The morning – afternoon – had started quite unusually; Loki, for one, was absent from the bed when you awoke. There was a tray of fruits and pastries and -- lemon and ginger tea? -- stood at the end of the bed.
You picked at a strawberry and sipped the painfully familiar tea, only taking a moment to reminisce before slipping from the bed – or, at least attempting to, because Loki decides to re-enter as you do, and wastes no time in ushering you back. He is almost completely bare, hair tied back at the nape of his neck, but you have no time to speak on it as he pushes a large, flat box into your hands and watches with expectant eyes.
And here you are now, with this beautiful, silken dress laying across your lap. It is the colour of emeralds and lush leaves in summer and Loki’s eyes when he uses seiðr and a million other shades of green, shifting and changing hue in the midday sun.
“A dress,” Loki says, slipping back into bed with you. He lays back, hands behind his head, and watches as you hold the dress up against your naked chest. His face is painted with a strange expression that borders on affection. Or was it smugness? Both, you decide. “Surely you’ve seen one before?”
You roll your eyes, throwing a look behind you. “I know. But what’s the occasion?”
“Do I need an occasion to indulge my wife?”
You can’t help but laugh, looking down at the dress once more. No doubt this had something to do with your little revelation the previous night. The thought sends a shock of something achingly close to love up your spine, and your smile grows warmer.
“Do you like it, my flower?” His voice is impossibly soft. It almost catches you off guard, steals the breath from your lungs and the strength from your limbs. You peer over your shoulder, and catch his eye immediately. You swallow past the indescribable feeling he draws from you, the warmth that clouds your vision and makes you tighten your grip on your dress. And you nod.
“I love it, my Loki.”
He smiles gently. “Good. My colours look best on you, wife.”
And then he reaches over to your hastily discarded cup of lemon and ginger tea and drains it happily, humming as the sweetened drink flowed down his throat. You're unsure for a moment whether the strange, lightning-like sensation that crawls up your limbs is from the lurching of your heart or the ache between your legs.
X
The gardens have quickly become one of your favourite places in the palace, third in line after Loki’s bed and the large library, the ceiling of which stretched up to what seemed like Valhalla itself.
You like to imagine that the gardens went on for miles and miles. You'd never know, of course; you've walked for an hour straight and come nowhere to the end, and if you looked over the grounds whilst on Loki’s balcony, they looked to meet the horizon. The Allmother was particularly fond of foliage, you knew.
In one area, there are traditional Asgardian blooms, flourishing wonderfully even without regular care; they are pale and gentle, and sway gently in an intangible wind. The trees are tall and thick, with deep chocolate bark and lush green leaves that reminded you of Loki Odinson’s eyes – some are even decorated with gold ribbon, wound around the trunk and branches like unnervingly still snakes. The sweet, gentle scent of those plants permeated the air and never failed to bring a smile to your face.
In another section, flowers and trees from the north grew. You had never been to the north, with its cold winds and frosty summers, but from what you'd seen in books, the flowers that grew in the palace gardens would be right at home. They are kept in even cooler conditions, in a bubble of magic that shimmered and shifted with every step closer. You are always too cold to enter, but you admire from afar.
There are velvet chaise lounges dotted throughout the gardens, surrounded by gazebos and arches crawling with vines and gold ribbon. The gardens were a popular destination for parties, you guessed. You could see the appeal.
Even with your hours of wandering and exploring, you had yet to find plants from the south. You thought that a piece of home in Asgard would help your mood lighten, but with every step taken and every corner turned that didn't reap what results you wished for, you find yourself becoming disheartened.
You longed to see the long stalks and bright, leafy flowers that you picked when you were a child; the ones your governess would braid into your hair when the spring turned to summer. You wonder briefly if Loki would allow you to ever braid them into his own precious locks -- then, snorting, you put the thought away – but not the thought of your raven-haired husband.
Loki was caught up in council over matters that were – in his words – best not revealed, lest you worry yourself. And when Loki was away, well, there was only so much you could entertain yourself with indoors. That was your prime reason for going to the gardens in this weather; this weather, being, Thor Odinson’s bad mood.
The God of Thunder had been moping around for reasons you only could guess had to do with this council that Loki was caught up in. Your husband had chortled over his elder brother’s inability to accept when he wasn't getting his own way, and it seemed like nothing would ever change. Asgard had been plagued by rain and dark charcoal clouds ever since the night before, and it left the gardens sludgy with muck.
Despite that, you send your handmaiden off and traipse through the greenery alone, with only the smell of petrichor and the feeling of raindrops rolling down your face to keep you company. When you return to the palace, it is with soiled shoes and a muddied hem. You very nearly fall on your behind multiple times, and you're glad that your handmaiden isn't around to see.
So distracted in your journey, you do not notice your prince – freshly out of war council – standing in the corridor over the entrance to the grounds, eyes narrowed and curious.
What ever had his little flower been up to? And in this weather, too? Employing his abilities as the trickster prince, he swiftly follows behind you as you hurry through the halls. You leave behind little muddy marks from your shoes, and he doesn't realise there's a small smile on his face until he looks down at the brightly polished floor and sees it. He doesn't linger any more on it – he busies himself with magic-ing away the muddy prints you've left behind and continuing after you.
You take a sharp turn in the direction of your chambers, and it is then that he strikes.
“You look awfully suspicious, wife.”
You gasp, clutching your hand to your chest, and you would have met the floor had it not been for his hand on your hip. Your chest heaving, you swallow. “Y-you startled me, Loki. I… I didn't think anyone noticed me.”
“I wonder how you expected to not be noticed,” he scoffs, albeit fondly. “You've trailed mud and water from here to Hel, it seems.”
He doesn't have to look at you to know your cheeks are heating up. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was out in the gardens…”
“I saw.” He nodded. “In this weather, though? Surely it could've waited until Thor grew up and stopped moping.”
You reach your chambers and pardon the maid at the door. Loki is more than willing to help you undo the laces on your wet corset, and he does so quickly.
“I fear that day will never come,” you tease softly, stepping out of your dress. You are left in your underthings, and he sneaks an appreciative glance at you before opening the door and calling for a maid to draw you a bath.
It is a stark contrast to the blushing maiden you had been just months prior, he notices; where the mere mention of removing your dress made you light up in embarrassment – though, if he looked close enough, he could see the shyness with which you toed your dress away, gazing at the floor. “Besides, the rain is beautiful, as cold as it is.”
“You'll catch your death if you continue on like that,” Loki says, but there's a glint of mischief in his eyes that tells you that he isn't quite as concerned as he pretends to be. “What kind of husband would I be if I allowed my first wife to perish only months after being promised?”
“First wife?” You say, raising your eyebrows. A group of maids scuttle passed you and into the adjoined bathing chambers, arms filled with buckets of hot water. You can't find it within you to embarrassed at your state of undress or your closeness to your husband.
“Only wife,” Loki says. There is a strange softness in the curl of his lips and curve of his eyes that tells anyone who would listen that Loki Odinson was not, in fact, joking.
You hum, and turn on your heel to sit at your vanity. You begin to undo the loose braids in your hair, peering at your husband's reflection. “And how was council, husband?”
He clears his throat and shrugs. “Boring, my flower. Nothing you should bother yourself with.”
His hands busy themselves with undoing his own numerous golden buttons and laces, and he skillfully avoids your gaze whilst he removes his shoes. To anyone it would seem like he was simply preoccupied with undressing, but you had seen him undress enough times to know that he was never so meticulous. Was he… lying to you?
Your eyebrows furrow and you continue to watch as he pulls his shirt over his head. Why ever would he lie about the ongoings of the council? His eyes flicker up from where he's unnecessarily folding his clothes, catching your gaze immediately, and he tilts his head teasingly. “I swear it.”
And stars curse him, he's sounds so confident that even you believe him.
X
A few mornings pass and you begin to forget about Loki’s strange behaviour regarding his work. Life continued on, and you didn't bring it up anymore. That was, until…
“Thor–”
You hear Loki huff from the living area, annoyance clear in his voice. You pushed yourself up into your elbows, blinking owlishly at the door. You had taken a quick nap after spending the day reading in the library. Loki had been beside you when you fell asleep, and yet…
Did he say Thor?
You rise from the bed slowly, and press your ear against the door.
“You of all people should know that this plan is foolish!” Thor hisses, obviously making an effort to quieten his voice. “Loki, they cannot be reasoned with–!”
“And what are our other choices, brother?” Loki snaps. “We can't afford to go to war with the Caledonians – not now, not ever–”
“It's too dangerous–”
“I'm perfectly capable of taking care of this–!”
“Listen to reason, you fool!”
There is a sudden shock of silence that makes even you nervous. You hear Thor sigh. “You have a wife now, Loki. You must think of her–”
“I am thinking of her,” Loki interrupted harshly. “In everything I do I am thinking of her. Do not question my loyalty to my wife!”
“I didn't mean it like that. I simply meant that there are better ways to go about this…”
Loki makes a nondescript noise of annoyance. “And what would you have us do, brother?”
“We march on Caledonia and make them surrender!”
“Father has already expressed his opinion on that, Thor–”
“It's better than sending you off on your own to your own death to bargain with a tyrant!”
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Your heart is pounding in your chest and bile threatens to rise up your throat. If you had pieced together what you had heard properly, Thor wasn't far from correct. The Allfather was to send your husband, your Loki, to barter peace with the king of a race of slaughter-loving savages. Alone. You felt dizzy at the thought.
When Loki speaks again, it is with such a coldness that you almost feel a chill crawl up your spine.
“Whilst I am glad to know that you hold such high opinions of my abilities, brother, I'm afraid you must go. I have matters to attend to.”
“Loki–”
“Go.”
The sound of shoes scuffing against the floor was the only thing to be heard, and you took the opportunity to slip back into bed.
When Loki returns, you pretend to be asleep. You sleep facing away from him, and hope he doesn't notice your shaky breathing or tear-tracked face.
X
You don't know when Loki is set to leave but you know that it must be soon.
Two weeks after you overheard his argument with Thor, you find yourself in the gardens again. Truthfully, you'd much rather be spending time with Loki. You've walked this garden path one hundred times and you will walk it one hundred times more. Your time with Loki, however, was nearing a long period of nothingness. You'd appreciate the extra time with him before he…
He still hadn't mentioned anything to you. No talk of a peace treaty, and no talk of travels or war or his potential death. You kept waiting for him to tell you, waiting for him to trust in you, but he always skimmed over any topic that could potentially lead to it skillfully, and set your mind to something lighter.
You find it hard to look at him. His green-gold eyes and his thin, ever-smirking lips and his black hair that was perfect for tugging. You'd take one glance at your emerald prince and see hundreds of scenarios with the same ending: his death. The Caledonians were not a peaceful people, and the thought of Loki willingly putting himself at risk made you sick to your stomach. Whether a conscious decision or not, you find yourself avoiding his presence as much is acceptable. You know deep down that it will do little to help you in the long run, and yet you continue.
In the morning Loki usually rises before you, so it's not such a trial to stay out of his way. He pours over scrolls and mysterious potions in his study, and when he sits for breakfast with you he's summoned to council only a few moments in. He always shoots you an apologetic smile and you respond with one that doesn't meet your eyes. He always kisses your forehead before leaving, and then the first half of the day is yours for the taking.
After spending the day doing – well, nothing – you hide yourself in some quaint hidden alcove in the library that even Loki is unaware of. You take piles of books in with you and don't leave until supper, where Loki typically greets you with a I was searching for you. How do you manage to hide from me, my flower? And you always laugh and brush it off and fall asleep only to repeat the next day.
You have resigned yourself to this endless loop of fear; fear of what was to come, fear of your emotions, fear for your husband's safety. It gnaws at your spine as you walk, rendering you stiff and as graceful as a baby deer. You clutch your clasped hands to your chest and inhale deeply as the door comes into sight.
“My lady..." The maid at the door bows her head lowly and opens the door for you. You nod your own head in thanks, but are quickly caught off-guard by the sudden whiff of sweetness that attacks your senses as soon as you step inside. So powerful, so tangible that you can almost taste it on your tongue. It is oddly familiar, and stirs a bout of nostalgia within your stomach.
"Loki?" You call out, voice concentrated with confusion. His study is empty, but as you turn to explore the left side of your chambers, you are faced with an explosion of colour.
Bunches and bunches of purple and cyan blooms lay across one seat, almost falling off the crushed velvet from the sheer amount of them. Next to them, tall, blue flowers in a golden vase. There are wildflowers from the plains where you grew up, spring flowers that grew in the gardens of your home, leafy green plants that your mother was so fond of. You don't realise you're crying until your cheek begins to tickle with the path your tears have taken.
"My flower," he says from behind you, and your chest seems to cave in from a sudden lack of oxygen that you can only guess is because he has stolen it. "Why are you crying?"
"I... I don't know," you say, inhaling shakily. Brushing your cheek with the back of your palm, you glance over your shoulder at him. "What is this, Loki?"
A smile flickers onto his face, small and sad. "I am, among other things, the God of Lies. And you, my flower, are the worst liar I have come across."
You snort, unladylike in manner but you can't find it within yourself to care. You must look a mess; tear tracks down your cheeks and the corners of your eyes reddened with emotion.
"I've seen the books you read in the library, and the way you speak of home," he murmurs. His shoes make no sound against the floor, and yet in seconds his chest is pressed against your back and his lips are against your shoulder. "I feel... ashamed that you felt you couldn't tell me."
Uncertainty clouds your brain for a few moments, and you step away from him to caress the silky soft petal of the nearest flower. "Is this a going away gift, Loki?"
Silence reigns. And then, he inhales slowly. "That's why you've been avoiding me, eh? Since when have you known?"
"Since Thor stormed into your study and shook the ceiling with his yells," you mutter, continuing through the hoards of flowers. Another sigh sounds from behind you. "When were you going to wait until to tell me? Halfway to the Bifrost?"
"I didn't intend to harm you," Loki says. "I simply... didn't want to add to your turmoil. Asgard is not the most comfortable place for you, I know. My leave is not the best thing that could happen, but..."
Two warm hands on your shoulders spin you gently to face him, and you find yourself avoiding those emerald eyes that no doubt could make you spill your thoughts in seconds.
"If this treaty comes to fruition, my flower," he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks, "You won't see a dark day. No death, no war. And all I have to do is... charm."
"At what price does this peace come at, Loki?" You whisper harshly. "You're throwing yourself into a land of savages with not even 10 men to protect you. Not even you can fight off an entire army!"
"It won't come to that, I promise you."
"And how can you be sure?"
"..."
"Because – because I don't know what I'll do, Loki, if you don't return–" Your breath catches, and with a horrified sniffle, you realise that you're crying – yet again.
Loki curses and cradles your head towards him. "Stars above, 't seems that I always manage to do what I don't mean to."
Your breathing begins to steady as you inhale his scent; leather and limes and parchment and ink. One wouldn't think to combine them but here he is, and he smells perfect, like light and love and happiness and home.
"I mean not to make you cry," he murmurs. "I wish only to be the cause of your happiness, my love."
"My happiness is with you," you say quietly, voice still thick with tears. You lean in closer to him, desperate for contact to soothe your needy skin.
"Then I shall be back before you can notice I'm gone," he says, and lays his lips over yours like they were created solely for that purpose. Your sadness begins to dim and ebb away with every movement of his lips, every swipe of his tongue and every clash of teeth that borders on discomfort and yet, you can't get enough of. You have no doubt that by the end of the night, he will have washed away your doubts and worries. He always did.
He pulls back, breathing laboured, and his skillful hands begin to tug and pull at the laces of your corset. The leather is undone quickly, and he tugs it down enough to reveal your breasts to him. A low groan in his chest, he bows his head and takes one caramel bud into his mouth.
You savour the feel of his silky locks between your fingers, his tongue soothing over the bites he laid himself, his hands groping and pulling you closer. Stars know how long he'd be gone for.
"Too long," you sigh out when he switches to the other breast, "I want you now."
"And I want to take my time with you," he says, but he straightens up despite himself. "Pity."
As Loki begins to shed his clothes, you pull down the decadent velvets and linens that adorn your own body. Green and gold, as always. You don't miss the appreciative glance he casts your way when your dress and underthings finally pool around your ankles and you perch on the side of the chaise lounge, patiently awaiting your husband.
"Don't make me wait, husband," you say. You reach out and tug him closer by his belt loops. "I'll do enough of that when you leave."
His hand grasps your chin, and tilts it up to meet his gaze. "You needn't worry. I don't plan on being long."
You hum in an effort to distract yourself from the conversation, and busy yourself with pulling off his trousers. Soon he is completely bare, and wastes no time in pushing you down to lay flat against the chair.
"Two weeks at most I will be gone," he says, kneeling down, and your body thrums in expectation of what was to occur. "Surely you can last that long away from me?"
"I should be asking you the same thing," you say, breath becoming short as his tongue licks stripes up your inner thigh. He nips at the sensitive skin at your teasing quip, hands smoothing up and down before drifting over your stomach. "You get awfully cranky when left to your own devices for too long."
He only hums, and it's only when he senses that you're about to lose your patience with his teasing that he truly begins to pleasure you; tongue trailing up between your lips, mouth brushing against slick, wet skin – but it's not enough, and he knows it. He takes pleasure in trickery.
"Don't tease me," you say, breathing deep and laboured. "Not now, not today."
Your fingers become reacquainted with his hair once more, and this time you use it to your advantage. A pitiful moan escapes you when you tug him forward and he finally makes contact with your clit, suckling gently on the little bundle until you keened.
"N-ngh – oh, my Loki..."
He seemed to like that – he hums again, sending vibrations all throughout your pussy that makes your toes curl and eyes flutter shut.
He breaks away momentarily but replaces his tongue with his thumb, rubbing hard circles against your clit. Your pleasure continues to build and build and build, but he only continues with his unrelenting pace. His eyes fixate on your face, narrowing in concentration as if he was imprinting the image of you into his brain.
"Let go, my love," he coos suddenly, lowering his head to plant a sloppy kiss against your thigh. "Let go..."
And as if your body was made to obey his word, you did – toes curling and back arching, mouth opened in a silent cry that only he could hear. Your fingers tightened in his hair, and you only vaguely registered his answering grunt.
Through your bliss-induced daze you see him kneel between your legs and curse, something like stars above you're beautiful, but you're too busy trying to fill your lungs that you hardly register it. But you do react when he takes your hips in his hands and yanks you towards him, propping your thighs up against his. He leans over you, brushing a few strands of hair from your sweaty forehead.
"I would never leave knowing that I wouldn't come back, I promise you that," he says quietly. His voice is... gentle. You've never heard it quite so vulnerable, and the thought almost brings tears to your eyes – but he is quick to dispel your thoughts with a kiss that steals your breath once more.
His kisses break off to grave your neck, no doubt painting his touch in shades of red and purple, and then his cock is rubbing against your slit, and he's pushing in, and the stretch is delicious and you can't quite keep your eyes open.
"No, no," Loki says, voice strained. His hand grasps your jaw. "You keep your eyes open."
And you do. You watch his eyebrows furrow in pleasure, his mouth open with pants and grunts, his eyes narrow and nostrils flare. You feel his hands clutching at your skin like he needs you to live and for a second you believe the same for yourself, because your legs are wound tight around his back, pulling him deeper, deeper, deeper...
His thrusts turn to grinds, movements that have him reaching so deep inside that you swear you can feel him in your womb. The thought sends a shiver up your spine; the thought of your stomach swelled with Loki’s child. Stars above, you would give him an heir if he asked you. A perfect little child, a perfect mix of both of you. A symbol of your… of your…
“Loki--!”
Your orgasm creeps up on you and seizes you with full force. You pull his lips from your shoulder to meet your own in a sloppy mess that you can’t bring yourself to care about. It feels like his seiðr has crawled from from his veins and into yours, rendering your limbs shaky. No doubt your pussy pulsating around him pushes him over the edge, too, because he gives a shaky groan seconds after and buries his head in the crook of your neck. You feel his cum painting your walls, the greatest masterpiece, and let your head fall back with a tired whimper.
When Loki rises to fetch a damp cloth and a blanket, you find yourself staring at the golden ceiling, legs still trembling and toes still curling. In the sudden stillness of the living area, your senses and thoughts rush back to you like water down a cliff. You're all too aware of the stickiness of sweat that stains your back and the cum that seeps from inside you -- which he cleans off diligently with a cloth, though he could easily magic it away. He prefers to do it by hand, you’ve found. And the thudding of your heart, you realise after a few minutes, is not from your lack of breath. It was from him.
From how close he was. From how he collapsed beside you after cleaning you up. How his touch was oh so gentle after he had bruised you in the most pleasurable way, how his eyes remained hooded and gaze satiated as he trailed up your body. The crooked smile he shoots you when he sees you looking, the kiss he presses to your knuckles soon after. You have an idea of what this is. You suppose you have for some time, but you had been to frightened and inexperienced in it to ask.
Now, though, with the threat of his disappearance looming on the horizon, you decide it’s as good a time as any to put your anxieties to rest.
Your chest fills with bated breath, and you swallow briefly. “Loki... Are we… are we in love?”
You hear his smile when he speaks. “I think so, my flower.”
“And… And you'll come back to me, yes?”
“Always.”
Good. Because he was your home now.