It is easy to tell where your land ends and the kingdom of Asgard begins.
There is not much to do while riding, and the hours pass slow and tiresome. Peering out of the small window of the carriage’s gilded walls is a luxury you can't afford to waste, especially when the familiar vermilion mountains and sandy plains of your kingdom are sure to be a rare sight for… For…
You had never given it much thought – how long you'd live there, that is to say. It sounded naive to say out loud; marriage is, after all, a lifelong commitment. This may be the last time to inhale and smell dust and sand and desert plants that bloom even in the deadly summer sun that hangs over your head, or to squint and see common children playing, skin dyed with red sand, or to so casually pass those desert-dwelling beasts – the ones you so desperately wanted to keep as a child, with fur such a rich orange-brown that it reminded you of the caramels you would sneak from the kitchens when you were younger.
Your lands are dry, barren, arid. Hardly fit for living – so the Asgardians would say. But you look upon the outskirts of your kingdom and see more life than you are guaranteed to see in Asgard.
Asgard. You know when you've reached Asgard. The beautiful ruby sand your kingdom is so renowned for gives way to luscious green grasses and tall, pale peaks that look as if they could be made from the winter sun itself. It is colder in these lands, but your handmaid has prepared accordingly – a thicker, silky shawl is placed atop your shoulders, covering the traditional thin jewel toned fabrics that clothed most of your body.
The grass turns to field and then to forest, where the trees stretch so high they appear as if they could touch the sky. There are not many people who live outside of the kingdom, you notice. These lands are alive only with the sounds of nature; a trickling stream, a cooing bird in a tree nearby. In fact, when your small party stops a moment to water the horses, you are greeted quite pleasantly by a emerald serpent that slithers from the trees and up your arm before disappearing once more. You take it as a good omen.
It is not until the rocky, uneven mountain path breaks away to form the King’s Road that the weight of what was to happen fully settled on your shoulders. Just the thought alone set weakness into your limbs and constricted your lungs – and as the first tall points of the Asgardian kingdom come into view, you are sure there is no possible way that your legs could still be working.
The King's Road is made of light coloured stone. The horses take to it rather smoothly, a stark difference from their trek in the mountains, and begin towards Asgard quickly because of it. You wring your hands together in your lap and inhale deeply, hoping that your handmaid can't hear the shakiness with which air enters your body. You have been as calm and collected as was possible up until this point. When the marriage was arranged, in fact, you made no arguments. It was not your place, and it would serve only to aggravate your father in the end.
As the carriage slips into the Asgardian streets, you find yourself dizzy. Extravagance is too dull a word to describe the buildings that loom above you, the glittering stone that has been cut into housing, the paths that almost glimmer gold, the sumptuous dresses that shine in the midday sun. Jewels decorate the necks of noble women as they pass, peering into the carriage curiously to catch a glimpse of you. You hear what they call you – the serpent's bride. You're not sure if it is meant to endear or alienate you.
Your handmaiden Ladva draws the curtains, and so you decide it is the latter.
The streets quieten as you near the palace, and this is when you truly think you're out of your depth. The Asgardians very obviously favor gold and precious stones and jewels; it is what the palace seems to be made of. Golden walls, engraved with intricate patterns. Marble floors swirling with grey and silver. The horses come to a stop, and you catch sight of a magnificently humongous statue of the Allfather himself, standing victorious and shrouded in gold. You smiled bitterly at that – your father once said that a man who needed to remind others of his greatness was never great in the first place.
There is no large welcoming party awaiting you as you step out of the carriage with the assistance of the your handmaid, only a band of ten or so guards, dressed in their proud Asgardian colours. You are reminded that despite the occasion that is to occur, it is hardly under happy circumstances. This is a marriage born of convenience and nothing more.
“Princess _____, it is an honour,” says one at the front of the party, bowing low. His comrades followed, and you nodded in return, eyes flickering this way and that. It was all so much to take in. “We've been ordered to escort you to your chambers.”
You're not sure what to say. All those etiquette lessons you'd attended from small, all those mannerisms meticulously studied, had vanished into thin air. Though, was there correct protocol for a lowly desert princess being married to the Allfather’s son? You would like to see it.
The only thing you could do was smile and bow your head. Your handmaiden was kind enough to take over. “Please, lead the way.”
The head guard takes to the front. You trail behind him, and your handmaiden follows. The other soldiers stay in formation behind you, carrying what little you have brought from your home.
The halls twist and turn not unlike the serpent which had slithered up your arm only hours earlier, white marble floors becoming hard grey rock as you continued passed the entrance hall and deeper into the palace walls. The palace is filled with maids and servants alike, bustling about with baskets and trays, eyes averted and head down as they pass you – though you can still see the curiosity that lingers in their eyes.
This place is… surprising. Chatter fills the rooms you pass by, maids appear from secret passages behind tapestries, ladies giggle together, dressed in expensive fabrics and necks sparkling in the low light. There is an distinguishable warmth that lingers in the air, but it does nothing to comfort you. It is too unfamiliar, too strange. Maybe in time you will grow to love it – though even that seems like wishful thinking.
You hold your head high as you pass by, though your stomach tightens uncomfortably. You think back to the tall ceilings and warm walls of the library back home, where you could spend hours and hours in your own company. You think of the sandy plains where you would ride your horse, your fine white stallion that you had been forced to leave behind. Maybe if you thought hard enough, you could smell the ageing pages of manuscripts, the warm sun beating down upon your skin…
“Here we are.” The guard stops and opens the door for you, and you are glad to say that you are taken aback by the sheer prettiness of your room. It has the same over the top appearance as the rest of the kingdom, spanning the size of almost two of your room back home. There are curtains and drapes, carved furniture the colour of alabaster, high ceilings and columns that rise from the ground and through the ceiling, wrapped in golden vines. Your things are placed near the entrance with the promise of having more maids sent up to help, but you hardly hear. You step onto the balcony, goosebumps rising from your skin in a completely unfamiliar and yet, welcome way.
This place is… beautiful. Connected by bridges, alive with greenery and people and creatures of all shapes and sizes. Even the sun seems to shine more softly, more gently, as if its purpose is to capture attention and radiate beauty rather than to keep you warm. This was to be your home. Forever, now.
“Your mother and father are to arrive tomorrow,” Ladva says quietly, stepping out to the balcony once your possessions have been put away. “I’ve been told that the ceremony is to take place tomorrow, too.”
You inhale deeply, dropping your face into your hands in an effort to soothe the sick feeling that crept from your stomach and into your limbs, up your throat until you felt as if you'd regurgitate what little you'd eaten all day.
“Worry not, aredevna,” she says, voice affectionate and hand on your shoulder even more so. She calls you little one even though there is but two years between you, and you had hated it when you were back home. Here, though, it consoles you. It reminds you of your people, your culture, satiating the sickliness for your home that has welled up inside you. “There are worse men to marry.”
“I know,” you breathe, lifting your head towards the sun. You think of your old friend Kavra, who was married off to a lord near the sea four times her age. When she visited she often wore bruises and a broken smile – but her marriage had secured trade for your kingdom. You think of your sister, Eldira, who left just after your ninth name day. She was 9 years older than you, barely a woman, and she bore her first child exactly 9 months after her wedding, giving the king of a far off land a suitable heir.
You shiver to think of what might happen to yourself – was the Allfather’s second son a brute, a woman-beater? Did he wish for a son or daughter soon? Would he hurt you if you failed to deliver? You had heard rumours of him of course, and they all ranged in nature; some spoke of him as a charming seducer, ploughing through masses of women as if they were nothing; others paint him in a lonelier, more somber light.
You hear the names they give him, too – serpent, trickster, lord of lies. When your armies had fought together, soldiers had shivered as they recounted tales of the green-eyed prince sweeping through enemies, horned helmet glinting in light even when night fell and pure wrath emanating from his person. You were to marry this man. You were to bear his children, wear his colours and insignia proudly.
Dinner is brought to your chambers when night falls. They have somehow managed to discover what your favourite foods are, but you don't have the stomach to eat much. You lay awake for a long time, willing the unease in your heart to settle. When you do dream, it is of a serpent with scales of moss and ivy that slinks around your neck and eases your worries away.
*
The next morning you are woken just after dawn. You start when you're greeted by an alien ceiling, furniture that is not your own; then, all at once, you realise your purpose here.
Ladva is bustling about, pulling open the heavy curtains that shield you from the outside. A tray of pastries and fruits and a pot of tea has been placed by your bedside, but the mere sight of food sends your stomach awry.
“Your dress has been delivered,” she chirps, picking up a folded pile of emerald fabric; expensive, by the looks of it. It shimmers and moves as if it was water, and you have no doubt that it would feel just as light between your fingers. “Traditional Asgardian garb – the prince's colours, too… Are you not eating?”
“I've not the stomach for it,” you mumble, sitting up.
“You'll have to force yourself, princess.” Ladva sighs, folding her arms. There is no doubt in your mind that you look positively pathetic; sitting swathed in an ocean of blankets and furs, your face forlorn and brow knitted. Hardly a princess. Hardly the princess of Loki Odinson. “The Asgardians take every excuse to feast. A large one will be held in your honour – it will be a long day, and a longer night.”
Your face sours. “Your words ring especially true, Ladva. Our marriage must be consummated.”
Her own face turns with pity, and she says no more; though she allows herself the smallest of smiles when you pick at the fresh fruits and drink half a cup of tea.
From there, the morning is a blur; a group of maids scurry in and hurry you into a grand bathing chamber, with baths of marble and bottles of indulgent oils and soaps lining the walls. They scrub you from head to toe, remove you of body hair, comb your unruly locks until they are detangled, and dot a cooling lavender oil in places where you suppose they think the prince will be near; the backs of your knees, behind your ears and on your wrists -- even on your lowermost lips, and your cheeks turn to fire at the thought.
Halfway through, you’re informed that your parents had arrived and were in the company of the Allfather and Allmother, and that you were to see them only once the ceremony was over. Your chest ached with longing to go find them, but you resigned yourself to sitting as still as you could manage, letting the maids braid your hair with strings of gold and emeralds, and apply kohl and rouge to your skin until you looked more confident than you felt.
At long last, when the sun was just beginning to descend from its place in the middle of the sky, your dress was pulled over your head. You were right; it was unbelievably light, as if your skin was being kissed by the wind itself. On your scrubbed skin it felt like heaven, and the thought of removing it later made you frown.
“Nervous?” Ladva asked quietly as she walked along the halls behind you. A large party of guards were escorting you to the ceremony hall, and the air was thick enough to suffocate. Silence had reigned for a long time until you took a shaky breath and her maternal instincts had kicked in.
“I've made peace with it, I think,” you said, voice equally as small. “Yesterday, I thought about Kavra and Eldira – of what they had to do for our kingdom… Now I know what I must do for my kingdom.”
The large, golden doors of the ceremony hall came into view, and the guards stopped momentarily.
Ladva squeezed your hand in hers for a moment. “You've grown so much, aredevna. I'm glad to be by your side.”
The doors were pushed open.
“And I, yours.”
People were packed into the ceremony hall for as far as the eye could see. Commoners stood near the entrance, and further up, the noble people sat. Murmurs filled the air as you came into sight, and your heart lurched.
A wide path had been made for you to walk upon, the same golden sheen as the rest of the hall, and it was this that you focused on as you took your first step.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. You chanted to yourself, willing the nervous tremor in your legs to dissipate. As you neared the altar you raised your head to the side; your father and mother sat, pride in their shoulders and tears in your mother's eyes. On the other side, the Allmother and Allfather, and Loki’s beaming golden-haired brother, who winked as you passed. Finally, at last, you tilted your head forward and met the gaze of your promised.
The first thing you notice is the brilliant shade of ivy that stares back at you. Even as you take your place opposite him, facing the priest that would wed you, his eyes never faltered from your face.
His skin is as pale as the snow you've never seen in person but in illustrated books, smooth and upkept as was expected of the prince of Asgard. He was tall and slight, but the strength and magic that surely ran through his veins was enough to command respect. A gently sloping jaw and straight nose, thin lips that didn't betray any emotion without his permission.
He himself was dressed in his battle armour, as Asgardian men wore on important occasions. Dark black and green leather, gold buckles and clasps, and atop his midnight locks, his infamous horned helmet. He looked dangerous, but not in the way most would think. While you were sure he could crush most under his fist easily, his power lay in something deeper – something within his eyes that glimmered in the candlelight, something that set itself alight with the mischievous curve of his lips.
Loki Odinson, you came to the conclusion, was one of the strongest men in the room. And he was to be yours.
“– of the Southern Plains, do you accept Loki Odinson as your husband, for now and hereafter?”
You started, eyes flickering up to the priest. You hadn't been listening. Clearing your throat gently, you risked a glance at Loki Odinson. You weren't sure if the amusement hidden in his eyes was ever present or if you had caused it; nevertheless, you raised your chin high and met the priest's expectant eyes.
“I do.”
“And do you, Loki Odinson of Asgard, the Realm Eternal, accept _____ _____ as your wife, for now and hereafter?”
“I do.”
Gods have mercy, his voice was the product of legends. Smooth, deep, a hint of humour hidden within even despite the circumstances. You suppose when he first wakes it's a grumble, still dredged in the sands of sleep… You suppose when he is in the throes of passion, it lowers to a growl…
These were hardly appropriate thoughts for a man whose character you had not yet judged.
The sharp inhale of air through your nose when your skin touches is quiet enough to only be heard by your husband, and you are certain that the smirk that follows is not imagined. The priest has bound your left wrist and his right together with a silken red length of fabric – and together, you dip your hands in the wide stone basin before you. The red tie dissolves as if it is made from nothing but sugar, leaving just a mark on your skin as a reminder, and it is done.
The ceremony is finished.
Together, you turn to face the masses, and a volley of deafening cheers fills the air. You peer down at the crowds, taking note of the joy that illuminates their features, of the happiness that shines in your mother's eyes – and then, a strong, calloused hand takes yours, and tugs you just that bit closer.
“Smile, wife,” he says quietly, thumb rubbing over your skin in what you think is a comforting gesture. “This is a time to rejoice, is it not?”
“I… I suppose so.” You are ever so grateful that your voice does not shake. You lick your drying lips, and find that when you do smile, it's not so hard to upkeep. Maybe this is a time to rejoice.
*
You come to assume that Loki Odinson is softer than he would like others to believe. In the hour or so it took for you to exit the ceremony hall and enter the dining hall, he kept you under close watch – stopping others from accidentally bumping you, smoothing a hand over your waist when he sensed your discomfort getting the best of you. You were, to put it lightly, overwhelmed.
You were unsure of him. You liked being level-headed, liked being able to remove yourself from a situation so that you could look upon it with unbiased eyes. With Loki, you felt like it was impossible. You were feeling all these strange, new emotions at such a quick pace that you had no time to detach yourself. Did you like him? Were you suspicious of him? Unsure? Uncomfortable?
It was much easier when you compared him to the horrible men you had seen your friends and siblings married off to. It was much easier when you thought of the names the people called him, of the stories they told of him. Alas, Loki Odinson was evidently not the man from their stories, nor was he an old tyrant who found joy only in stealing a woman's dignity.
The dining hall has been filled to the brim with food and people alike. Roast boars and chickens and cows dot the tables, and piles of steamed and roasted vegetables follow. Golden brown bread and pastries are piled high, and tankards of ale and mead seem to never empty – Loki, you notice, nurses but one chalice of deep plum wine, and eats lightly.
The Allfather and Allmother sit at the nearest table with your own parents, conversing leisurely and eating what you're sure is a decadent fig pudding. You wouldn't know – you have done little but rub over the mark that remained on your wrist, take small sips of your own mead, and smile jovially when those sober enough to stand would approach and give their congratulations… and, of course, watch.
You watch your husband, judging his character from afar. He smiles and laughs and charms easily, what with his handsome face and intelligent demeanour. The people are uneasy around him, you discover, but mead and ale and wine has made their lips loose and hearts bigger – there has been at least 10 celebratory songs sung already, led by a large man with a ginger beard and a leg of chicken in each hand. Loki enjoys the attention, as much as he doesn't let it show.
When he is alone, and is unaware of your lingering eyes, he watches others too. Then, he deflates. Only slightly, with the practiced movements of someone who doesn't want to be caught. He becomes quieter, eyes glazing over in thought and yet, still so attentive. It should be no surprise that he catches you staring.
“Does the view please you, wife?” He says, voice low. His eyes remain on the throngs of people before him, and you see the glint of something hungry and wanting within his eyes. Whether at the prospect of leadership, or…
“S-sorry,” you say, lifting your chalice to your lips once more. You barely take a sip, but it gives your nervous hands something to do when he turns his eyes upon you. “My lord.”
He huffs a laugh. “Surely, we are past titles. You are my wife, and I your husband. I should think Loki would suffice.”
“Loki,” you correct yourself, testing the syllables on your tongue. They taste like full moons and the brilliant colours of the bifrost, and the deep burgundy that swam in his chalice.
“Tell me, wife,” he says. “Do you often stare at others?”
You almost lie. Two things stop you – the first, that the man in front of you was the god of lies. The second, that no sustainable marriage was built off lies, no matter how small. Instead you swallow your nerves, and nod.
“When there isn't much to do, yes.”
“And what do you gain from it?” He isn't malicious, purely curious. The ease with which the conversation is flowing makes your heart thud.
“I would think that you would know,” you quip before you can stop yourself. He raises a curious brow, and takes his chalice in his hand. “I was watching you. You do the same.”
“Of course, of course.” He sets his chalice down without drinking, angling his body towards you, and you're struck with the realisation that this is the first real conversation that you've had with your husband. “And what have you learned of me, wife?”
For a moment you simply let a wave of loud silence wash over you, filling the space with drunken shouts and music and cheering. You have the subconscious feeling that if you choose to continue with this conversation, it will lead to something more. It is up to you whether you continue it or not.
“...Well,” you begin uncertainly, “You… charm others easily. You know what to say and when to say it.”
“Hence my nickname, silvertongue. Go on.”
You're unsure if you're about to overstep some boundaries, but he's encouraging you. He will reap what he sows, if that is the case.
“This marriage…” His eyes narrow in interest, almost imperceptibly– “It doesn't bother you.”
“Oh?”
“You are smart, Loki Odinson. You know what you must do for your kingdom–”
“I could say the same of you–”
“But more than that, you know that this is, above everything else, a stepping stone.” Your mouth keeps moving even though your brain begs it to shut itself, to never open again unless explicitly told to. “You crave power. What your father has, what your brother has. You want it.”
You have, in essence, just accused him of treason. He should be shouting, calling the guards, even a simple backhand would do. You have spoken out of line and insinuated something so improper that you wouldn't object to being punished – but Loki… If anything, your words make him burn brighter. There is a certain appetite for something more carnal in him, one that you are almost sure has been brought to life by you. Your heart thuds loudly against your ribs, and for all the right reasons.
Loki straightens up, and you realise that you had been mere inches away from each other. His eyes rake over your form with such distinguished thirst that you're rendered breathless, and he turns away to hold his chalice once more.
“My colours look good on you,” he says, and he doesn't speak once more for the rest of the feast.
*
The moon has been hanging above for hours by time you retire to Loki’s chambers.
You had been blinking owlishly at your tankard of mead when Loki’s excitable brother lumbered up and clapped you both on the shoulder, grinning widely. The scent of alcohol clung to him as it did on most.
“Brother,” Thor boomed. “I do think it's time you brought your wife to bed!”
Those close enough to hear and sober enough to react cheer, and you can almost hear the roll of Loki’s eyes in his voice. “I hardly think it's any of your business, brother.”
But he rises anyway, smiling a reluctant smile at the teasing that arises with him, and holds his hand out to you. Wordlessly you take it, and let him pull you gently up and through the drunken hoards until you're out and into the cool air in the hallways.
He waves off the security detail that jumps to follow, and they settle down easily. They must be tired, and you know that Loki can protect you both should any problems arise – and with that, he takes your arm and leads you through the twisting Asgardian hallways. The lit lanterns that line your path cast warm light and hard shadows onto his skin, and for what feels like the millionth time, you have to stop yourself from staring.
Maybe you should focus on more important things – like the fact that you are indeed on the way to Loki’s bedchambers, that you are to be taken like you have never been taken before. Apprehension makes your chest feel like it could cave in at any moment. Loki Odinson surely had experience; you had heard the rumours about him, and he wasn't expected to remain celibate like women were before marriage. He had no reason to.
You, on the other hand… The most you had done was kiss the stable boy when you were 11, and that mess of clashing teeth and smacking foreheads was not a good enough reference for whatever was to happen. Your stomach sunk like a stone.
“Are you coming in?”
You hadn't realised that the journey had ended. His room is alone at the end of a long, dark hall, with heavy mahogany doors and two golden door knobs carved into serpents. Both doors had been pushed open, and he stands between them, eyebrows raised and helmet held in one hand. Hair as black as coal hangs loosely, framing his face as if it were made only to do so.
“S-sorry,” you mumble, wringing your hands as you slide passed him.
His room is, as the rest of the palace is, enormous. The room you step into is made of the same dark stone as a majority of the palace is, with dark tapestries and furs lining the walls. Bookshelves fill the spaces in between, chock full with scrolls and tomes and magical knick-knacks that seemed to buzz with energy. In the centre of the room is a large table, similarly covered in miscellaneous items, and a few chairs surround it.
Off to one side, another large room sat. It was mostly bare, but broke away to form a balcony that overlooked most of the Asgardian kingdom in all its glory. A dark emerald chaise lounge and a few ottomans dot the room, and a pair of thin curtains blow gently in the wind.
On the right side, you can see his sleeping chambers through a thin crack in the door. From what you can see, it is equally as dark. You set your sights on the cluttered table, and begin to explore.
Scrolls filled with a pointy, looping scrawl lay on top of each other, diagrams haphazardly drawn on spare pieces of vellum… A heavy tome illustrated with swirls and chevrons lay open, showcasing the brutish, choppy looking language of the Asgardians. Unconsciously, your fingers brush over the letters.
“Do you speak it?” He is closer than you expected, and you thank the stars above that you don't start at his presence. You had almost forgotten he was here, but now that he's close enough to touch, close enough to smell the strange mix of spicy and sweet that clings to him, you wonder how he ever slipped your mind.
“No,” you murmur, apprehensive to shatter the ambience that had grown. “Only my native tongue… and the realm’s common speech, of course.”
He hums, the sound reverberating in his chest, and you fight to suppress the shiver that arises as a result. Breathe, you mutter to yourself. This overstimulation of senses will be your downfall.
He reaches a hand forward, fingers pressing against the page near yours. His chest can't be more than a centimetre away from your back, and you hope that he is not able to feel your thudding heart even through layers of skin and bone and flesh. His fingers trail softly over the weathered page, smoothing over inscriptions and pictures. Your mind wanders, thinking of how they might feel against your skin, brushing over your temples, skimming up your spine…
You must stop.
“And what are your thoughts of seiðr?” He murmurs lowly.
You inhale deeply, gulping. “There are many sorcerers in my kingdom. I have no fear of it, my lor– Loki.”
He huffs an amused laugh. “A first. Many an Asgardian has expressed their distaste for my… talents. They think it brings destruction, ruin. And it can, I assure you. But it can bring more…”
His hand lifts from the page, and your heart very nearly stops in your chest when it finds a place on your stomach.
“...Life, pleasure…”
His lips are at your ear, brushing teasingly along the sensitive skin in such a way that you don't fight the tremor that shakes your limbs from head to toe.
“I am willing to show you these ways, wife, if you'll allow me to.”
“I… I…” Your mouth is dry. You're conflicted between your head and heart – your heart tells you that you want to, that you would gladly give yourself to this charming, mischievous man. Your head reminds you that you barely know him, that you had been dreading this very moment for months. But your head also tells you that your marriage must be legalised, that sooner is better than later. “I have never had a man before, Loki.”
The hand on your stomach presses down gently, encouraging you to turn and face your husband. You keep your eyes cast downwards, unwilling to sneak a glance at those intensely calculating eyes.
“I know you haven't, little dove,” he murmurs, brushing the knuckle of a finger against your cheek. “I can be gentle with you.”
A moment of silence passes, before, hesitantly, you nod your head.
He doesn't start furiously like you had thought he would, like a starving, careless man – rather, like he promised, he begins slowly; one hand on the small of your back and the other cupping your cheek with a softness so unlike the brooding prince of Asgard.
First, his lips meet the column of your neck. You feel shocks prick at your skin where he touches you, but in the best way. He is experienced, that much is obvious; he licks, sucks, bites at your flesh in ways that are sure to earn a reaction, drawing unfamiliar sounds from your own lips that have him smiling against your skin.
Soon, he grows tired of your neck alone; your breath hitches, and in that moment he seizes your lips and closes the gap that had been between you. You vaguely register his hands lowering before your mind is captivated by the sensual movement of his lips against yours.
It seems he is everywhere; you feel him, taste him, smell him. You want to cover yourself with him, have him inside you, around you, above you; you crave him, and in such a desperate way that you almost scare yourself.
Loki’s tongue moves with the finesse of an experienced man, intertwining with your own and coercing you deeper and deeper into the black hole of desire that has bloomed from his hands. You hear yourself moan, and feel your cheeks heat at the alien sound. Never before have you felt inclined to do so.
“Delicious.” He pulls away from you momentarily and you find yourself chasing after him. “You're delightful, little dove.”
One kiss, two kisses, three kisses, four; he pecks your lips in quick succession before he draws back, gazing down at you with a dark, dark intensity. You wonder if this is the man soldiers meet on the field, all dark eyes and furrowed brow; but no, his touch is much too soft for the battlefield.
“I hardly think a table is suitable for your first time, little dove,” he says, and you're not sure where this nickname has come from but the acceleration of your heart and turn of your stomach must mean that you like it. “A bed is required for what I intend to do to you.”
Stars above, those words shouldn't make your breath hitch or the space between your thighs throb, but it does. Without question you follow him to his sleeping chambers, watching with nervous eyes as he sheds his outermost layers (a hard leather vest and a pair of gold arm cuffs).
His sleeping chambers are not unlike the rest of his room; dark, filled with books, but the centrepiece is a bed instead of a table. It is large, almost too large for even two people, and it's sheets are carefully made.
“Forgive the mess,” Loki says, glancing back at you as he throws down his emerald green tunic.
“All is forgiven,” you reply, a small, teasing smile making its way to your face. It's a wonder how relaxed you feel, but Loki has given you no reason to feel otherwise. Besides, he seems to enjoy your conversations together. “Though, the next maiden in here may not be as lenient.”
“Oh?” He raises his brows, and you notice the first few buttons on his shirt have been opened, revealing smooth, pale skin. You longed to run your hands over him. “There happens to be one particular maiden I hope to impress.”
“Really?” You echo. You like this game he plays. He doesn't seem so intimidating like this. “Tell me about her.”
“She's…” He tilts his head, faking thoughtfulness– “...quiet. Extraordinarily intelligent, from what I've gathered. Almost unbearably observant...”
He nears you once more, dipping his head to nose at the nape of your neck. “Breathtaking in green and gold – though I would guess she'd look best in nothing.”
You swallow your stuttering breaths and nibble at your lower lip. “W-well, there's no assurance in guessing. Surely you would have to see this maiden in no… no clothes for you to be sure.”
A chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Maybe so.”
Sly hands tugged at the laces of your corset, skillfully pulling out the knot Ladva had tied that morning. From there, it loosened easily, and you barely had time to feel nervous before it collapsed, only held up by your quick hands.
Loki’s hands covered your own, and your eyes met his. You were sure the uncertainty and nervousness you felt showed clearly in your eyes, though there was no annoyance or irritation in your husband's. In fact, he quirked a small, almost affectionate, smile.
“I will take care of you, you know.”
“I–I know. I do, but…”
“Are you scared of me?” He asked. His voice remained light, his features too, but you saw a dimness in his eyes that hurt to notice. He trusted you, even a small bit. You wouldn't betray that trust – and so, you tell the truth.
“Yes,” you confess. He nodded slowly. “N–not for the reason you might think, Loki. I–You may desire another woman after me. More experienced. Able to fulfill your needs. I simply… don't want to be thrown away.”
His eyes harden and soften in the blink of an eye. “I am the god of lies, little dove. It is in my nature to lie, but believe me when I say that I couldn't have wished for a more perfect match.”
An uncharacteristic gentleness moves him to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ears.
“Your… capabilities mean nothing to me. I can teach you all that you wish to know – we can learn each other together.”
He holds your gaze.
.
.
.
You let your dress fall to the ground in a heap of green and gold. He takes a step back and stares, nostrils flaring and jaw clenching as he absorbs the image of you, from the swell of your breasts to the curve of your waist and the curls that sit between your thighs.
“You are sure you don't possess seiðr, little dove?” He breathes. “You look positively magical.”
You can't help the little laugh that rises in your chest at that. He holds out his hand to you, and with a surprising lack of hesitation you take it. He pulls you towards his bed and gestures for you to lay down.
“It's awfully unfair that I alone am in this state of undress,” you comment, laughing as he presses a kiss to your stomach.
“I must prepare you first, little dove, if you are to take me painlessly,” he says, settling down at the end of the bed.
Having him so near your pussy made your nervous, but there was no room to move further up. Before you can rethink your discomfort, anyways, he's winded his arms around your thighs and pulled them apart, revealing your womanhood in all of its glory.
You suppose the burning of your cheeks is due to this and not the growing warmth of his sleeping chambers. You peer up at the ceiling, unsure as to what you're supposed to do while he… marvels at your pussy.
You hear him inhale deeply, and then hum. The burning of your cheeks worsens, if possible – the thought of Loki smelling, seeing, touching your most private areas… A shiver sets your skin afire, and you hear Loki chuckle in response – and then, without warning, you feel warm air against you. Stars above…
“I can see you trembling, little dove,” Loki says, voice full of amusement. “I haven't even touched you yet. Would you like me to?”
He knows damn well you do.
“Y–yes,” you breathe. “Yes, yes, yes. Please.”
“Such manners,” you hear him mutter, and then his mouth is upon you, and your mind goes blank.
He must be putting his seiðr to work because there is no way that the pleasure he wrangles from your body is not the product of magic. He trails his tongue from the very bottom of your slit to the ball of nerves at the top, rolling his tongue against your clit and sucking when you got too used to the flow of pleasure. You're not sure of what noises are leaving you but you're certain that they successfully reflect the sensation broiling in your stomach–
“Ngh – n… L–Loki…” Your chest rises and falls quickly, barely pausing between breaths. There's an electricity building in your limbs, a sort of static energy that makes your toes twitch and your mouth gape. “I–I…”
He doesn't concede, only continuing in his unrelenting pace, flattening his tongue to cover the length of your pussy. The sound of smacking and slurping fills the air, and the shameless desire it sparks in you only fuels the growing pleasure in the pit of your stomach.
“Stars above,” you curse, feeling your whole body flush with warmth. “Loki, you – you bloody… bloody…”
Your husband laughs against you, and you whine. “Don't fight it, little dove. It's much more worth it to succumb.”
Another hum against you and a suckle of your clit between his lips and you're gone. Your nerves seem to vibrate all throughout your body, back arching and mouth opened in a silent whimper, pussy clenching uncontrollably. Vaguely you feel his hair between your fingers and his tongue riding you through your first real orgasm, but it's all lost to you.
It could be minutes or years before your eyes open and your brain refocuses. Your hands are knotted in Loki’s sooty black locks, but he doesn't seem to mind as he raises himself onto his elbows and hovers over your limp self. He presses a kiss to your shoulder on his journey to your face, and you don't miss the cocky smirk that pulls at his lips at the sight of your very obviously blissful expression.
“Did you enjoy that, little dove?” He asks, scraping his teeth over your ear.
“Very much so,” you say, grinning lazily.
“You'll be happy to hear that there's more to come, then,” he says. You watch with greedy eyes as he straightens up and begins to undo his breeches, aware of the weight of your gaze on him. He really is beautiful, you think. There is not a more suitable word to describe the smooth expanse of pale skin that's stretched over taut muscle and bone, the gentle yet harsh angles of his face, the strands of hair that fall perfectly. You feel a strange wave of possession, of jealousy, wash over you. He was yours. He was yours.
“Are you okay, little dove?” He smirks, setting his clothes off to the side, but you don't miss the tiny hint of concern that hides in his words. The thought makes you smile.
“Fine, my prince. Better than fine.”
“That's good to hear.” He's back on the bed now, and pulls you towards him by your waist until you have no choice but to let your legs take their place on either side of his waist. You feel something hard brush against your inner thigh, and your stomach lurches. Oh.
“Do you feel me, little dove?” He coos, voice low and drawling in your ear. You are suddenly reminded of the dark, brooding prince the people told rumours of. Of the confidence and mischief he commands, of the power that swims beneath his skin. “Do you feel your prince?”
Even breathing seems too loud. Here, caged between his strong arms and beneath his equally as strong body, you feel like you're the only two people in the world. (You would like that.)
“I do.”
He hums. “And what would you like your prince to do, little dove?”
“I…” You are reminded of your inexperience. You know the words, you know how they're meant to be said, and yet your tongue curls up and fumbles when you mean to speak instead. “I want… I want you. I–inside me.”
He tsks in disappointment, but shrugs after a moment's thought. “I must remember that this is your first time. I can get ahead of myself, see, when I am presented with a particular beauty. You've done well, little dove.”
He brushes his lips against yours gently, a mere taste, before he fully commits to a sloppy kiss that steals your breath and attention away – distracting enough for him to begin to press his cock into you, kissing away any whimpers that escape you.
“Just a little more, wife,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.
It burns, the stretch. You've haven't seen many a manhood but you can't imagine that all of them are as long or thick as Loki Odinson. You struggle to accommodate him, but with his lips kissing every inch of skin he can reach, it manages to pass by quickly. He's fully sheathed inside you, throbbing and warm, and that same warmth from before begins it's growth once more.
His hips begin to move, and by the stars above you've never felt something so intensely. He moves fluidly, as if he's made from water himself, his arms strong and sturdy beside you. You can't help but grasp his bicep as you begin to lose yourself, glad to have something to ground you while you ascend to Valhalla, it seems.
Your eyes flutter open and shut, and you happen to catch a glimpse of Loki’s face before they close again. How many times could you say he was beautiful before the words lost their meaning? A few million, you hoped, because he truly was. His hair clung to his forehead, his jaw set in concentration, grunts reverberating from the back of his throat. Loki Odinson, god of beauty, god of marble-carved muscles, god of… Of…
“Gods, Loki,” you pant, nails digging into his skin. “D–don't stop, please, please…”
“I don't plan to, wife,” he says, chuckling breathily. Your head falls against the sheets once more, and you wallow in the pleasure. There was no way in Hel that anything could feel better than this. Nothing, nothing, nothing – you would bet all that you had to your name.
Loki catches your eye once more, and you feel confusion push past arousal at the sudden mischievous narrowing of his eyes; and then, before you can blink, it seems, there are two.
“W–wha–?!”
This second Loki doesn't let you finish your sentence. He bows over your head to connect your lips, roughly biting and sucking until you can barely remember your own name, let alone the fact that there were two of him. His fingers pluck and roll your nipples between his fingers, coercing you towards that delicious ending that you craved.
“Go on, little dove,” Loki groans. “Cum for me, wife.”
Maybe it is Loki One or Loki Two that makes you cum. Maybe it is the sound of unrestrained pleasure in your Loki’s voice that sends you keening into the crook of his neck. Maybe it's the feeling of his hips bruising your own. Whatever the case, you're taken hold of by your orgasm once more, sensitivity rendering you speechless; every limb tremors and shakes with pleasure, and your vision goes a stark, shocking white – maybe you pull his hair, maybe you lock your legs behind his back and push him towards you as far as he possibly can – you don't quite remember.
What you do remember is that Loki gives a hefty grunt and collapses on his elbows, thrusting his hips into you even as he spills his seed into you. As his thrusts slow and his kisses grow more gentle, you find your eyes drifting shut, an unfamiliar warmth blooming in your chest when he murmurs sweet nothings into your skin.
“Sleep, wife,” you hear him say against your temple. “Sleep, and dream of me.”
That night, you dream of an emerald serpent that winds itself around you and rocks you to sleep. You feel at home.