jadekillian

[jadekillian]

Loki literally acting like Goob from Meet the Robinsons when all those kids were being nice to him and he was like, “they hated me.”

This is SENDING me.

The accuracy is unfortunately very accurate.

^^ (Loki’s genuine reaction to you calling him out btw )

[jadekillian]

And @mischiefmaker615 does it again.

“Oh, I’m sure he did a decent job at accustoming you to the size, though I must say- you might need a bit more foreplay to take mine.”

“Tied to the chair in front of you - wearing the exact same clothes as the man above you - was Loki.. muzzled and bound securely.”

“I wonder at the end of this, who’s a better fuck?”

Absolutely NO ONE does dark fics like you!

Water, please??? SOMEONE?

Circus Psycho

Summary: Something is going on with your boyfriend.. something much more than his new new interests in the bedroom..

Rating: R (DARK ELEMENTS AHEAD!)

Song Inspiration: "Circus Psycho" by Diggy Graves

Your purse hadn’t even hit the ground yet when your boyfriend’s lips collided with yours, backing you up against the door which finished closing with a bang as soon as your back met the wood.

Your eyes widened, the sudden surprise catching you off guard while his hands roamed hungrily over your body, pulling at your jacket to slide it off your shoulders before his hands ran down to your jean’s zipper next.

‘’mmm- not that this- isn’t a nice surprise- after work-‘’ you tried to get out between his lips before you had to turn your head to the side, hands quickly taking hold of his wrists to stop him while you panted. ‘’but can’t I get into the door first-‘’

‘’you are now..’’ Loki purred, smirking against your skin while he began to press open mouth kisses under your jaw, causing goosebumps to travel over your skin while your thighs pressed together.

‘’but- Loki..’’ you tried, eyes fluttering while you tried to get your thoughts together, feeling how his hands gripped your ass and pulled you closer to him so his erection was pressed against your clothed sex. ‘’L-Loki-‘’ his teeth then sank into your sensitive spot between your neck and shoulder, causing you to yelp more out of surprise before your hands pushed against his chest. ‘’Loki!”

A huff left his nostrils while his hands remained on your hips, leaning away only because your arms extended between you both and he gazed upon you with mild impatience and lust. ‘’what is it my darling?”

‘’it’s just that-‘’ you paused, biting your bottom lip while you hoped you wouldn’t hurt his feelings. ‘’is everything alright? You just.. never done this before- not that I’m ungrateful or not enjoying it, it’s just.. a surprise..’’ you explained quietly, your hands slowly running up to his shoulders, feeling how nice the fabric of the t shirt felt under your fingers and let you feel his toned muscles underneath.

‘’perhaps I’m feeling like a new man, a new man who would like to indulge and please his woman..’’ Loki smirked, his hands gliding up to your waist before pulling you close against him once more, his lips capturing yours with a hum and a softer approach.

If he said nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong- you trusted him to communicate with you so perhaps you were just being silly in all this. You both had sex this morning- thorough- yet he acted like he was all.. pent up right now.. unless his new approach was involving trying newer things that you both had discussed- briefly- and that possible fact had a nervousness twist mildly in your stomach.

‘’you could just say you missed me-‘’ you teased shyly, feeling how his mouth attacked your neck again and had your eye lids fluttering while you glanced over his shoulder.

The bedroom door was open, lights out- same with the rest of the house. Had he been spending time in the dark? Or perhaps it was to surprise you with this greeting.. a gasp left your lips when you felt his teeth nip close to your collarbone, promising a mark while your thoughts snapped out of it.

‘’you think to much darling..’’ he chuckled, pulling you back into the moment while his hands snaked around to grip your top in front. ‘’besides, don’t you say action speaks louder than words?”

Your lips parted to answer him before a ripping sound broke the silence, followed with the room’s temperature meeting your exposed skin while he tossed your- now- shredded shirt aside, leaving you now in your bra with his hands falling back down to the zipper of your jeans.

‘’I envy your memory..’’ you whisper with a smile, eyes closed now to relish in the feeling of his lips traveling down to kiss at your cleavage while his slender hands began lowering your jeans off your hips, pulling them down to the point where he had to sink to his knees with his lips making a trail down your stomach.

‘’and I envy the lost time when we could have been doing this.. all day, every day..’’ he murmured against your skin, licking and kissing at the skin of your stomach and sides while his hands expertly helped lift your leg to rid of each pant leg in turn while your hands gripped his shoulders for balance.

‘’bills need to be paid if we want to continue fucking in a proper bed.’’ you grin with a whisper, feeling him mouth trail back up while he stood, meeting your lips again while his hands slid back around to knead at your ass once more with his thumbs ghosting under your panties.

‘’a proper bed is an excellent start here.’’ He smirked, finally ceasing his affections to take your hand and lead you towards the bedroom.

You looked over his form while he led the way, loving how drop dead sexy he looked in his Levi’s and t shirt but also noted how unbalanced this was to have you being the only one if your underwear. When you both had entered the dark room- having no problem navigating since you’ve been in it thousands of times- you moved towards Loki who turned to face you again and your dainty hands moved to grip the bottom of his T shirt.

His hands met your wrists and held your hands up with a tsk ‘’ah ah ah, I rather find you wearing venerability much preferred.’’

You gave a short laugh and tried pulling your wrists back. ‘’you are gorgeous Loki- you have nothing to worry abo-‘’ you suddenly were turned and pushed forward, having you land onto the mattress on your stomach while you felt his body quickly follow suit on top of you.

‘’I just simply can’t wait anymore..’’ his voice was husky, his strong thighs on either side of yours while he straggled your hips, his clothed erection pressing up against your ass while your fingers gripped the sheets.

‘’are you sure you’re alr-‘’ you let out a yelp to feel a firm hand hit one of your ass cheeks, the surprise sting being followed by pleasure while you felt his hand sooth it while his tongue began to trace a trail up your backline and his teeth meeting your bra clasp.

‘’no more talking darling, unless you are begging or pleading..’’ he breathed out before you felt the quick release of your bra being expertly unhooked by his teeth and felt your bra straps run down your shoulders.

You bit your bottom lip to stop your talking, trying to convince yourself this was all just something he wished to try differently- to take sex on in a different approach and that he would remain the loving, gentle boyfriend in the end where he’d give perfect aftercare and cuddles in the end. If this is something he needed right now, the two of you could talk it over later.

His hips began to shift, grinding his erection against your ass while you rested on your forearms, tossing your bra aside while you felt him lean over you to reach around to begin fondling both your breasts. A pleasurable, shuddering breath left his lips before his fingers began to play with your nipples and his mouth lower to plant kisses over your shoulders and back.

‘’I do quite see the appeal of Midgardians.. your assets are quite delectable compared to the other female species I’ve come across..’’ he murmured, sucking and nipping at a few spots on your back where you knew you’d have marks the next day.

His words knocked on your thoughts again, teasing you a bit out of the pleasure zone in order to try to process what he just said. You both have been together for a year- intimate dozens of times.. was this some role play approach? Some weird desire to mention the fact that it was kinky that two kinds of different individuals were being intimate? Your brows furrowed while your voice tried to play along, an unsure tone still sneaking through.

‘’Asgardians are q-quite hard to handle.. however will you make it fit?” you teased back, hoping you didn’t sound cringe while you looked seductively over your shoulder while he leaned up and ran his hands down your body, fingers curling to grip your panties while he smirked at you.

‘’oh I’m sure he did a decent job at accustoming you to the size, though I must say- you might need a bit more foreplay to take mine..’’

You furrowed your brows while your lips parted in a silent response, unsure of what to say next while you tried to figure out what he just said. He? What did he-

There was a quick snap and you felt your panties being removed, followed by Loki’s cock grinding now between your cheeks and against your folds- making you wonder when he had pulled it out while you tried to raise yourself on the mattress. ‘’Loki- what are you-‘’

One of his hands planted between your shoulder blades and pressed you back down onto your stomach, making you squeak while your fingers gripped the sheets. Your heart rate began to beat faster while your eyes widened. ‘’Loki- what’s going on??”

‘’it’s no wonder he favors you darling, with a body like yours, I wouldn’t quite want to share either..’’ he purred, his voice sounding much darker while he began to rub himself against your cunt while his body practically lay on top of yours, a hand wrapping around your front so his forearm pressed up right between your breaths with his hand coming to hold your jaw, making you look forward. ‘’isn’t that right, Loki?”

Your heart felt like it had stopped- the flash of brief, green light before you made your eyes blink to adjust to the dark again before you nearly stopped breathing. Tied to the chair in front of you- wearing the exact same clothes as the man above you- was Loki.. muzzled and bound securely.

Your eyes widened while his eyes gazed at you with utter horror and remorse. His face and hair looked like he had just got in a tight, and the way his breathing quickened and his muscles strained made it clear he was trying his hardest to get free- but was failing. Your mouth opened, not knowing if it were to scream or to demand, but were immediately silenced when you felt your panties be stuffed into your mouth and muffled your cries.

Your hands flexed to raise and remove them, but your wrists seemed to have some sort of invisible force holding them down in front of you- keeping you in a plank position while Loki(?) continued to rock his hips slowly still against you with a chuckle.

‘’I’m truly sorry darling but I just couldn’t help get a taste for myself, I’ve seen so much of you, I thought it was truly best to begin to make things a bit clear..’’ his fingers gripped your hair and pulled your head back and felt his lips beside your ear. ‘’your mine now..’’

Your Loki in front of you began to muffle harsh sounds- cursing no doubt while you felt your body begin to struggle and panic against the weight above you and your invisible restraints. Your eyes squeezed shut when you felt him drag his tongue from your ear, up to your temple before he leaned back up and placed a firm hand on your hip, raising it ever so slightly to make your back arch.

‘’how about this, you keep an eye on us the entire time, and when I’ve had my fill, I will not kill her, and release you both. Sound fun?” the variant smirked at Loki who glared at him with hatred and triggered another round of struggles while you whimpered, feeling him tease your entrance with the tip. ‘’I’ve waited long enough, so you’d better answer quick-‘’ he sharply tugged at your hair, having you yelp and bite down on your panties while Loki’s eyes gazed at you with fear and panic.

You felt a tear roll down your cheek, hating yourself for not following your instincts- for not knowing that this wasn’t your true Loki.. for letting him get you this wet.. you raised your eyes at Loki while your body shook, knowing there was nothing he could do, nor could you within your power of restraints so you relaxed your expression and gave him a small nod that it will be okay.

Loki’s nails dug into his calms and it was clear the chair had been enchanted because it would have fallen apart in one tug against the Asgardian’s strength. Gripping the arms of the chair now, he felt his own tears running down hot against his cheeks while he raised his gaze of hatred to the clone that hummed and lazily tilted his hips back and forth into you, a smirk mocking your lover whenever your breath would hitch when it felt like he’d finally breach you.

You squeezed your eyes shut when you realized your fate was sealed once Loki gave the Variant a slow nod. You could hear him chuckle before you felt his body heat hover above your body before his hand reached around to grip your jaw again, making you face your lover while his thumb brushed against your bottom lip.

‘’what say you darling? do you prefer to watch him? how he envies to be buried in this tight cunt? to feel your warm, smooth skin or to taste the sweet tears of pleasure?” he whispered, his head practically lowered enough where his cheek was pressing against yours and indicated how you both were watching Loki in front of you who shook but kept his obedient eyes on the scene.

‘’I wonder at the end of this, who’s a better fuck?”

Your fingers curled tight into the sheets, back pressing up against the Variant’s chest and stomach while you felt his hips tilt and press his cock into your cunt in a slow pace. He kept pushing, not even pausing until he had reached his full limit and stopped at the hilt. Your eyes fluttered, brows furrowed while you let out a small whine of mild discomfort. A small fraction of yourself was grateful that you had been wet since you could feel the uncomfortable feeling of stretching the new size. He wasn’t much bigger than your Loki, perhaps just a tad but you most certainly told yourself you’d rather feel pain than pleasure from him while you shut your eyes and told yourself to refuse to get wet.

A slender hand went quick and swift against your cheek, a mild tap if anything, telling you to open your eyes while your body flinched out of the shock. Loki in front of you tried lurching forward, not liking to see how he hit you to merely have your eyes open while the Variant just chuckled and raised himself to grip your hips with both hands.

‘’do not make it seem like she is not into a bit of pain, my dear Variant.’’ He smirked, clearly seeing himself as the original while you tried to keep your eyes open and anywhere but Loki. ‘’what’s pleasure without a little pain?”

He then tilted his head back, eyes fluttering when he began to thrust into you, dragging his cock in and out slowly with a purpose to make you feel everything he was giving you. His fingertips slightly curled against your hip bones, using them as perfect leverage to push and pull your body rather than for him to move himself in and out. now and again, he would slam you back into him, enjoying the small whimpers when he switched to a rougher approach before he’d leave you guessing again of what was next.

He had moved himself onto his knees, pulling your body back and up so your ass was in the air but your wrists stayed pinned to the original spot, making you keep your arms stretched out and your chest practically pressed to the mattress still while he began to pick up his speed.

‘’gods.. so tight.. it’s either a blessing from the gods or your poor lover right here has no idea on what to do with you..’’ he mocked, his voice husky and strained while the sound of skin slapping could be heard and your breath began to be knocked out the rougher he got.

Your eyes dared to raise towards Loki, seeing how his brows were furrowed in concentration to watch and not risk looking away to seal your fate and safety. His eyes caught yours, almost pleading with you for forgiveness, to hear his thoughts that screamed it was going to be okay, that he wasn’t going to get away with this.

‘’ah ah ah, reminiscing is for after the event darling, learn to live in the moment, to not think- but feel..’’ The Variant encouraged while he buried himself deep into your cunt to reach down and grab hold of your wrists.

He pulled you up by them, making you wince by the position of your arms before you felt them being pinned and locked behind your back before an arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you up on your knees and with your back against the Clone’s chest.

‘’there we go, I wouldn’t want him to miss the best angles..’’ he whispered, lips pressed by your ear while he seemed to use the momentum of the mattress bouncing to have you raise and fall down on his cock. His free hand moved around to then begin folding one of your breasts, now and again pinching at your nipple and having your eyes squeeze with your head falling back onto his shoulder with a whimper.

‘’ohh I think she likes that, doesn’t she? But I think I know exactly how to play with her..’’ he purred, eyes staying on Loki’s who screamed hate while he watched the Variant’s hand fall and glide down to slowly begin rubbing circles against your clit.

‘’mmph-!’’ you yelped, body squirming while Loki’s arm raised from your waist and wrap under your breasts, keeping you still while he forced you to take all of his administrations.

You couldn’t look at Loki, your body beginning to shake while you felt stuffed and your cunt tightening around him. to your horror, that familiar feeling of bliss and pleasure began to build, trying your hardest to fight it off while you began to breath quick and sharp.

‘’ohh she’s trying to fight to inevitable, is she?” the Variant chuckled while he sped up his fingers against your clit, smiling when he would feel you twitch and jolt before he’d resume his original pace.

It was clear he was dragging this out, building you up just to have you wait at that fine line. Not quite wanting you to finish yet, but most of you told yourself he was the one who didn’t want to finish yet. Your eyes opened when you felt his lips begin to caress your shoulder and neck, sucking at the space in between while sinking his teeth in to hear your breath hitch.

‘’you’re going to cum for me darling.. you’re going to cum for me because I made you cum, not him..’’ he whispered beside your ear, nibbling on your earlobe before he began quickening his hand and drive his cock deeper and faster into your cunt, making your eyes flutter.

‘’and your going to watch it. All of it, how she cums on my cock, how her body will wither because of what I did to her.’’ the Variant hissed at Loki, who shook with rage and his nostrils flared to keep his eyes steady on it all.

He wanted to kill..

Your eyes begged for forgiveness, feeling your breath flutter while your eyes did the same, raising to the ceiling before you felt your body betray you. Your orgasm hit hard, a moan shamelessly leaving your lips through muffles of it down fabric. Your head fell back onto his shoulder while your back arched, chest out and body shaking while he moved both his arms around you and moved faster. You were a doll, a toy, how he drove himself to where you felt him moaning and panting while plunging into your core that milked him within your own pleasure. His arms almost were too tight around you before the sinking of his teeth in your shoulder drew your attention before you felt something hot spill inside of you.

You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut while you panted, coming down from your own high while he slowly raised you up and let you fall back down on his cock repeatedly, making sure to use you until his own high came down as well.

His teeth released you, as did his arms before he let you fall onto the mattress, arms draped in front of you now while you panted on your stomach and rested your cheek against the mattress, not even wanting to face your lover with the shame that began pushing your bliss aside.

You flinched to feel movement in your mouth before you realized the Variant was removing your panties from your mouth so you could take proper breaths and rest your jaw. Your body shook and shivered when you felt Loki’s cock slip out of you before his body couldn’t be felt at all anymore- not even his body heat. Your eyes fell closed, knowing it was over while your arms moved lazily to a push up position, gathering strength to now go help your boyfriend before a firm hand landed between your shoulder blades and pushed you down once more with a yelp.

‘’ah ah darling, I said I’d let you both go once I’ve had my fill..’’ his voice purred, wrapping a hand below your chin to grip your neck and pulled you up so you were up against his chest again, struggling and clawing at his wrist.

‘’you should know by now that a god has far more stamina to maintain, having you once isn’t nearly enough to sate me..’’ he smirked, running a tongue against your cheek while you tried getting his hand off your neck so you could properly breath and plead.

‘’p-please-‘’ you got out, your body beginning to tire itself out while Loki struggled in the chair, making it barely scoot forward on the ground.

‘’ohh I like that..’’ he breathed and flicked his eyes up towards Loki with a grin. ‘’did she ever beg for you?”

Your body shook before you felt his tongue collect your tears, closing your eyes to except your fate and do it to get you both free.

Only after..

Only after he had his fill, his true fill, did he vanish and release you both.. but not until he made sure to thoroughly leave his mark..

He took you two more times in the position you were in. three times he had you suck his dick and once he had you in a sixty-nine position. He even ate you out, making you cum three times while you hung your head off the bed and were forced to watch your boyfriend in only an arm’s reach away. Only once did he have you sit on Loki’s cock, your back facing him and not moving but to lean forward to suck the cock of the Variant’s. no piece of furniture was left untouched and he made sure to always keep Loki watching, always turned to get the best view of it all and to burn the memory into your body and mind.

Only then, did you both finally be free..

Note: TBH Tumblr put a lot of "cuck chair" themes my way so i guess this is kinda like one?

DM a song for your own Musical Mischief one shot!

Tag List: @foxherder13 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @fire-in-her-veinz @nervouseden @kathren1sky-blog @eleniblue @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @queenofstarsign85 @slytherinqueen4life @soulpiercing @westwindrhapsody @lulubelle814 @angelofthorr

[jadekillian]

Part 4/5

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗔 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗢𝗱𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻—𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝘀𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱—𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 (𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆), 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗴𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿, 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 (𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟭) 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀, , 𝗦𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗼𝘅𝗶𝗰? 𝗦𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮? 𝗢𝗸𝗮𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗼𝘅𝗶𝗰, 𝗹𝗼𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻/𝗳𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗧𝗧, 𝗹𝗼𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗽𝗼𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿, 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝘀��𝗿𝗿𝘆, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼 𝗳𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗱𝗿𝘆 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝘆, 𝗮𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗣 𝗔 𝗜 𝗡.

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 (𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟭) 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝟯+(?) 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸 (𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘆), 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵

𝗪𝗖: ~𝟳𝗸

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗦𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗿𝗻. 𝗜 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱. (𝗕𝘁𝘄, 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁.)

By the time morning broke and the drunkards had all stumbled home, you found yourself still alone in that seedy tavern with nothing more than a sore throat to show for the night.

Loki had not returned. He took the first chance he had and ran, abandoning both you and Thor in the late hours of the night.

He didn’t make an appearance upon your return to the palace, nor was he present during breakfast or during lunch. Had it not been for Queen Frigga herself confirming that he had, in fact, come home last night, you would have begun to believe that he had perished.

But, no. It appeared that the young prince was merely avoiding you.

The day went on in a haze. You attended the fittings and sat in on council meetings, but your mind never once stopped drifting. Every sound was the door opening and Loki walking in, every movement a flash of black hair or a glimmer of green in your peripheral vision. But it was all a trick, a hallucination. The object of your attention was nowhere to be seen.

Until it was.

The sun had already fallen below the horizon, and the great hall was alight with the glow of a thousand candles and a hundred conversations. Tonight's celebration is in full swing, the tables loaded with food and the wine flowing freely. You find yourself in the center of it, seated between your parents and engaged in a lively discussion about tomorrow night's wedding ceremony.

You were hardly listening.

In truth, you had barely heard a word your father said. Something about flowers? Or maybe the seating arrangements? Your gaze had drifted to the back of the hall, where a pair of familiar emerald eyes were staring right at you.

Loki was standing there, surrounded by a gaggle of noblewomen and yet still somehow alone. He was dressed in gold and black finery, a goblet of wine held loosely in his fingers. As he stared, he brought the cup to his lips and drank, never once looking away.

You had never felt so much in one moment. You wanted to run away, to hide in your bedchamber and never leave it. You wanted to run over to him, to demand to know why he had disappeared. But, most of all, you wanted to look away. You wanted to be the one to break the contact first, to turn your attention elsewhere and never acknowledge him again.

But you didn't. You couldn't. You were pinned to your seat by his stare. So you stared back, willing him to feel even a fraction of the discomfort that you did.

It was only after your mother nudged your shoulder, drawing your attention back to her, that the connection broke.

Your father clears his throat, his eyebrows raised expectantly. "What do you think?"

"I..." You look down at your plate, blinking furiously. You hadn't heard a word he said, let alone had the time to formulate an answer. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you were saying."

"Of course you didn't," your mother murmurs, her tone just barely loud enough to reach your ears. "You haven't heard a word I've said, either."

A deep sigh falls from your father’s lips. It was neither angry nor exasperated, merely resigned. “Darling, you must try to focus. Tomorrow will be a long day, and there is still much to do before it arrives. You must keep your mind clear if you are to prepare properly.

“I know. I'm sorry. It's just..." You glance back towards the spot where Loki had been standing, but he is gone. In his place dance Thor and Sif, their hands clasped as they spin around the room.

It makes you feel sick.

"I have a lot on my mind."

"Yes, we noticed," your mother says, her lips set into a thin line. She is aggravated; you can tell. She has a habit of tapping her fingers on the table when she is. You brace yourself for the impending lecture.

"It is quite common to be nervous," your father offers instead. "But tomorrow is a special day, one that should not be sullied with worry. The ceremony will be flawless, and it will serve as the beginning of a new chapter in our lives. I am sure you will not only do us proud, but Aelfheim as well. A fine princess of Asgard you shall be."

Your father's words are meant to be reassuring, but they have the opposite effect. They bring to mind the events that will transpire the next morning—the events that the raven-haired prince will be watching.

The ceremony.

The consummation.

A wave of nausea washes over you. It takes all your effort to keep it down.

"If you'll excuse me," you say, standing up and pushing your chair back. "I think I need some air."

Your mother reaches out to stop you, her hand resting on your shoulder before you can escape. “You have barely attended any of the celebrations. Sit, enjoy the food and the festivities. There will be no running off tonight.”

Her voice is firm, brooking no argument. Her frustration is valid; this is the second night in a row you've abandoned the celebrations early. Still, the idea of remaining a single minute longer in that crowded, noisy room makes your skin crawl.

You have no choice.

You force a smile. "Of course."

And so you stay.

You pick at your food, drink the sweetest wines, and absently show appreciation to the guests who approach the table to pay their respects and offer congratulations. But you are not present, not mentally. You are somewhere else entirely. Somewhere quiet and dark.

You are alone—until a large, calloused hand touches the small of your back.

"May I have this dance?"

Thor's voice is warm, his touch even more so. It should put you at ease, but it doesn't. It's like a hot coal burning into your skin.

You hadn’t realized how used to the cold you had become.

Cold touches and sly smirks. Cold words and colder stares.

A shiver runs down your spine.

"I suppose you may," you say, taking his hand.

The crowd parts for the two of you as you make your way towards the center of the room. Your long, golden skirts billow out behind you, shimmering under the light of the chandeliers.

All eyes are on you—the jewel of the celebration.

Thor spins you, then pulls you in close. "You look absolutely stunning," he murmurs.

He smells like alcohol. You wonder just how much he's had to drink.

Considering it is a celebration for his own marriage, probably far too much.

"Thank you," you reply, forcing a smile. "You are looking quite handsome yourself."

It was true. His attire is simple, but elegant. The black tunic is adorned with gold thread and accents, and he wears a crimson cloak trimmed in fur. Even without the armor, he cuts a formidable figure.

One that is currently spinning you across the floor.

"You look troubled," Thor comments.

"Do I?"

He nods. "Are you worried about tomorrow?"

You bite your lip. Is it truly that obvious?

“Are you not?” you ask, avoiding his question.

His expression doesn’t change, his features set into an easy smile. Yet, there is something hidden within his eyes. Some emotion that is not reflected in the rest of him.

“We will make a good match, and Asgard and Aelfheim will thrive because of it. Why would I be troubled?"

Lies by omission.

He speaks the truth but not the whole of it.

He cares for you, yes, but that was not the entirety of his feelings. You don’t have to ask him to know. You can see it. You can sense it.

Just as he can sense that you are not telling him the whole of your thoughts.

"Is this what we are now, then? Liars to each other?"

You had not intended to say that. The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Thor blinks, caught off guard by the sudden accusation.

"We have both grown up and entered a new phase of our lives," he replies. "Our roles are no longer children, but adults. The decisions we make affect not only ourselves but the lives of others as well. We must be cautious and deliberate."

"And what you are doing with Sif is a decision made through caution and deliberation?"

It is a soft accusation, barely a whisper in the bustling room, but it hits its mark. The shock on Thor's face is immediate.

You hadn’t known for sure, not until just that moment. But the expression on his face tells you everything you need to know.

"How did you..."

"You're not subtle," you reply. "Nor is she. You should try to be more discreet, lest someone else notice."

Thor is silent for a long moment, his eyes focused on some spot beyond your shoulder. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and solemn.

"I do love you,” he says. "And I believe we can find happiness together as partners and rulers. I can promise you that."

He says the words with such earnestness that they almost make you believe him.

“But...?"

He shakes his head. "There is no but. It is the truth.”

"It is the partial truth," you counter. "And I want the rest of it."

On beat, he spins you. When you come back to him, he looks down, meeting your gaze.

"What does it matter? Whether it is Sif or another, we are destined to be wed regardless. The outcome will be the same."

“I want to know what the two of you spoke of yesterday. What did Loki hear?”

And maybe you had no right to demand an explanation. After all, your situation is no better. You were just as guilty as Thor was, if not more. And yet, despite knowing all of this, you could not let the issue lie. For days you have sat with the guilt of betraying Thor, and yet he had betrayed you as well.

Maybe you were just searching for an excuse to justify your own actions.

Thor opens his mouth, no doubt intending to protest. But then he sees it. The desperation in your eyes.

The truth spills from his lips like water.

"Loki overheard Sif and me speaking. She was..." he hesitates, searching for the right words, “...upset with the arrangement. She had thought there was a chance, however slight, that she and I could someday be together.”

"And did she get her answer?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I told her the truth," Thor says. “As I am telling you. There is no changing this. It is what must be done for the sake of our realms. What we feel matters little in comparison."

His words sting. They are harsh and blunt, and there is nothing to shield you from the blow.

“So, you love her?"

Thor does not reply. He does not have to. The silence speaks for him.

"Do you love Loki?"

The question catches you off guard. Your eyes snap up, wide and alarmed.

"I don't—"

"He is not as subtle as he thinks he is," Thor interjects, repeating your earlier words. "Nor are you."

You can almost taste the sweet wine coating your throat, thick and acrid and threatening to make a reappearance. Still, you continue to perform for the audience, smiling and swaying. Just as a princess should.

“He is your brother," you finally manage, the words barely audible.

"And tomorrow, he will be yours, too."

There is no malice or contempt in his words, merely fact.

A fact that you could no longer run from.

“Come on,” Thor says, chuckling sadly. His smile is strained, twitching and faltering at the corners. Eventually, it falls entirely. “You are my best friend. Did you think I wouldn’t notice that something was amiss?”

You had hoped not.

A lump forms in your throat, and you swallow thickly. You couldn't meet his gaze. If you did, you were certain the tears building in your eyes would spill over.

"It is alright," he says. "As I have said, what will be will be. I can no more control it than you can."

Silence falls over the two of you as the violins and cellos play their final notes. The song has ended, and so too has the performance.

"Excuse me," you mumble, backing away from him. "I need to—”

You can’t even finish the thought. How could you? Everyone seemed to know what you needed but yourself.

You leave him standing alone in the center of the room. He doesn't try to stop you.

Fresh air. You need fresh air.

The courtyard has never felt so welcoming. You move quickly through the entrance and descend the staircase, entering into the hedge maze. The paths are nearly pitch black now, only faintly illuminated by the light of the moon.

The tips of your fingers brush against the delicate flowers as you walk. Each path is familiar to you, ingrained into your memory after years of exploring, and you are sure-footed as you turn and change direction.

Soon, you hear the fountain and see the lanterns.

One more turn and you are there, coming out into the center of the maze. The stone pathway splits off into two directions at the base of the statue: a great warrior holding aloft a sword.

In your youth, you and Loki made up stories about him. You claimed he was the brother to the figure depicted inside the palace, one who was also carved of marble. One who was tasked to guard the kingdom. Loki claimed otherwise, declaring the figures had never been brothers, only enemies. He told tales of two kings, rivals that hated one another so completely that neither could exist without the other.

The stories always escalated, leading into arguments that often had to be quelled by Queen Frigga. Eventually, she declared no more talk of the matter was to be had and ordered that no more stories would be invented regarding the statues.

They were just decor, after all.

You stare up at them now, your fingers brushing over the initials Loki had engraved in the base years ago.

L.O.

They were hardly visible now, worn down from the years of weather, but they are still there. Still a testament.

You reach into the pocket of your gown and retrieve a small blade. Slowly, carefully, you carve your own initials below his out of spite.

It was stubborn of you, really. A silent declaration that he could not just carve his mark into history and pretend he had sole dominion over the stone warrior. A final act in the childish feud that no longer meant anything but was a point of pride in your chest.

You never really could stop playing his games.

Afterwards, you sit on the edge of the fountain and drop the blade into the dirt. You stare up into the clear night sky, a million stars shining down on you. They remind you of Aelfheim's, their constellations forming pictures in the darkness.

The quiet seeps into you, flooding every pore and vein and crevice. With no eyes on you and no expectations to adhere to, the facade begins to slip. It clings only weakly to your skin as you drag your hands over your face, smearing the makeup that the handmaid had spent hours applying.

Everything was falling apart. The arrangements that had once made sense now served only to create rifts in every aspect of your life. Loki was avoiding you, Thor was finding comfort elsewhere, and soon everything would be wrapped in finality.

The wedding would come to fruition; you would have to consummate it, and everything that could have been would be erased.

No second chances.

Not that Loki was interested, anyway. This was, after all, what he wanted: your destruction. He hated you so completely that he was willing to risk the stability and security of an entire realm to have you brought low.

And you hated him so much that you had kissed him. Tasted him. Reveled in it.

It made no sense. Your feelings were nonsensical and out of your control. The ache was rooted inside you, not bound by reason. You weren't even entirely sure how long you'd held these feelings for.

Had it been since childhood? Had the seed of it first grown when you were still small and innocent, playing in the palace gardens together?

It seems plausible. From your earliest memories, he had always been there. Even in his taunting and cruelty, you had thrived in the attention. You sought it out with every opportunity.

Because, somehow, the disdain and apathy were preferable to his absence.

Some people are a fever, a plague that ravages the senses and burns away reason. The contagion is inescapable; once caught, it must run its course until all is gone.

Until the sickness becomes your entire reality. Until there is nothing else but that sensation.

But Loki wasn't just a sickness or a fever. It would be so much easier if he were. That would mean that when this was over, you would be fine. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. In time, you would heal, and your health would return. You would recover.

Loki was a disease. A tumor.

He would always be there.

When Thor takes your hand tomorrow and declares his love, Loki will be in the crowd.

When he slides into your body for the first time, you will subconsciously imagine that the calloused hand between your thighs is softer.

When in the light, you will always crave the shadows.

Loki was permanent.

"I would think a princess wouldn't have the time to skulk around in dark gardens."

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Loki emerges from the archway. After a pause, he begins to walk towards you.

No.

Towards the statue. He stops directly in front of its towering figure.

The knife catches his eye, gleaming up at him from the dirt. He stoops down to pick it up, seemingly pausing to examine it.

"Scoring an additional act of vandalism, are we?"

"You did it first."

Loki smiles wryly and taps the sharpened tip against your carved letters. "How very petty of you."

You wrap your arms around yourself. The chill is back, but this time it is accompanied by a bitter wind that cuts through you. You're dressed too lightly to combat the cold, not to mention that most of your warmth had been sapped away the moment he entered.

“How did you—” Your brows draw together as you watch him toy with your knife, twirling it between his fingertips. “Did you follow me here?"

He lifts his shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Perhaps. Or maybe I just happened to be heading in the same direction."

You stand up, jaw set. “What do you want?”

"Many things. Infinite knowledge, infallible power, someone to fetch me a mug of ale." The corner of his mouth twitches upward. He is teasing you.

"Why are you here?" you insist.

Loki studies you carefully. His eyes are cold, his gaze clinical. "Do I need an excuse to visit the palace gardens?"

"At this hour? Yes."

He arches a single, raven eyebrow. "And what of you, then? Why are you here, princess?”

You bristle at his use of your title. It is a formality, something that implies a level of respect. But his tone holds nothing of the kind.

"What do you think, prince?" You bite. "Maybe I came here in search of peace and quiet."

"Did you find it?"

"I did. Until you showed up." A lie.

His head drops, the shadow of a smile passing over his lips. It is barely a whisper of one, but you are certain you saw it.

You don't comment on it.

Instead, you watch as he continues to play with the dagger. He seems...uneasy. On edge, almost, despite his outward appearance. He is composed and collected as always, wearing his impassivity like a well-tailored suit. But you can sense the air around him—tight and drawn.

It only makes you resent him more. How unfair was it that you, so stripped of control, were forced to succumb to these emotions, and he continued to display so little care and concern?

You sharply take a step forward and swipe the dagger by the handle, ripping it out of his grasp. He doesn't even try to stop you.

Or maybe you're just faster than him. A very rare possibility, but one you intend to consider when the wind sends a strong whiff of alcohol and cologne towards your nose.

"You're drunk," you murmur incredulously.

"Well spotted," he says dryly. "Next you might notice that the trees have leaves.”

A twinge of annoyance, followed by a headache. He was trying to avoid any serious discussion, it seemed.

Why would he follow you all the way down here for meaningless talk?

“Another obvious observation for you then,” you begin flatly, "You have been avoiding me since last night. You walk out in the middle of the night and then do not appear all day. Not until the celebrations, where you lurk in the shadows and do not even speak to me. Now you show up here, trying to distract me with poor conversation. Tell me, Loki, why are you here?"

Something about him seems to bristle at your words. There is a momentary tension that passes through his frame, stiffening his shoulders and back.

Then, he breathes, and it is gone. He relaxes, letting go of the past few moments and taking on an air of neutrality.

Slowly, he takes a step forward. You stand your ground as he enters your space, close enough to feel the chill that radiates from his skin.

You wonder if he can feel the warmth from yours.

“Why do I always come?” he asks, the question soft.

His hands are gentle when they brush up the length of your arms, delicate when his index finger skims the hollow of your throat, and firm when they enclose around it.

You do not have to verbally respond. The question is merely rhetorical, a tool used for emphasis rather than clarification. You both know his motives.

“Loki,” you gasp, a weak cry into the void.

Your name is a breath, his lips just barely forming the syllables before he crushes them against your own.

There is no buildup to the kiss. It starts in fire, fueled by a deep-seated need to dominate. He kisses like he lives: calculating yet merciless, desperate yet reluctant, destructive and all-encompassing.

The alcohol on his tongue was not just one but a bouquet: the night’s honey mead, fine aged wine, and the faint burn of whatever bitterness the prince prefers. You can taste the entire evening, every toast to your marriage, and every minute of ironic celebration.

He was not just drunk. He was absolutely smashed. If not obvious by his taste, than definitely by the way he almost falls forward into you as he devours you. He does not maintain his usual restraint; there is none of the finesse or composure. It is sloppy, messy, and dangerous.

He is drunk, and you are foolish. A deadly combination.

Your lips twitch, not quite reciprocating, yet not quite denying. The indecision tears you in two—push him away or pull him closer?

You are angry with him. But you want him, and maybe anger and desire are not as far apart as you initially thought.

One of his hands leaves your throat to circle around your wrist, squeezing tight and guiding it upwards until the tip of the dagger in your grasp is pressing against the base of his own throat.

It was a demand. A plea disguised in an act of force.

Kiss me or kill me. Either is fine. Just make a decision.

He doesn't like the in-between. It leaves him stranded, adrift on the sea with no sail. It strips away his certainty. He needs something concrete, the promise that a choice has been made.

And a decision is made.

You inhale sharply and drop the blade in favor of clinging to the front of his silks. You anchor yourself to him, the only solid piece in the chaos. The only familiar thing.

But that familiar thing is rotting. A foundation with holes, with cracks spreading up the pillars. It would eventually crumble under its own weight. The decay is beneath his skin and in his blood. You can taste it on his tongue, but you still drink from him as if you are dying from thirst and he is a pool of fresh rainwater.

His thigh slips between your legs, nudging them open. The hem of your long skirt lifts, bunching just above your feet as he applies the sweetest of pressure.

A soft groan falls from your lips. He swallows it, his chest vibrating as a growl builds in response.

Curse him and his mouth and his lips and his everything. He makes you mindless. All the anger you felt earlier has melted into a liquid heat, settling hot and low in your belly.

It was that easy.

Were you truly so weak?

You certainly feel so when his mouth moves away. His next words are spoken in a hoarse, rough tone that is so unlike his usual smooth and lyrical one.

“You want to know my reason for avoiding you?” He laughs, a hot gust of breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

You struggle to swallow past his tightening grip on your throat. "Tell me."

His teeth drag over your jaw, his nose ghosting up the side of your face.

"You drive me mad," he growls, frustration saturating each word.

He bites into your neck, a sharp sting. Gentle yet bruising, a perfect combination. His tongue soothes the ache that follows as he shifts to an entirely different point just a fraction of an inch to the right.

“To the point where I cannot think straight, much less sleep. I am obsessed with the mere thought of you and disgusted by it. All these years you have remained unassuming and utterly irrelevant, only to have grown up into this fucking..." He trails off, lost in the throes of his own rampant thoughts.

You stand frozen, stunned. His knee lowers to instead push his own hips forward and replace the empty space.

So achingly hard. You can feel the stiff outline of him through the fabric that separates the two of you.

“Loki, you are drunk,” you croak, trying once again to summon your indignation.

He doesn’t mean these words, you try to convince yourself. The liquor is doing the talking. His mind has been blurred into submission.

"Gods, you infuriate me so much," he hisses. "I hate you. Do you know how many years I wasted on hating you? My brother’s perfect companion, always there to shadow him and support him. The beloved daughter of an ally realm, so above myself that not even my attention could touch her.”

You try to cut him off again, to deny the validity of the drunk ramblings, but your tongue remains rooted and helpless against your own saliva.

His teeth sink into your flesh, clamping over your pulse. The sting makes you gasp, an automatic reaction.

This was not even a lesson—not your typical one, at least.

It was punishment for merely existing.

Loki takes advantage of your reaction, grinding the outline of his cock into your center. You don’t know whether to arch your body into him or turn away from his onslaught.

“And now you are to marry him," he sneers. "Tomorrow, I will watch as my brother—the one that you seem to care so much for—ties himself to you in the name of duty."

Your eyes widen, shock coursing through your body. There is a lump forming in your throat.

This isn’t right. Him mentioning Thor, here, now, after all that has transpired—

His hand moves off your throat to reach for your wrists, and he wrenches it away from his jacket before pinning it behind your back. You are flush to him now, with no gaps or crevices between the two of you. Every point is burning, singing at the contact.

It doesn't feel as hot as the seething hate in his eyes.

No, you don’t like this. This is not the Loki you have learned to know. You hate the drunk, bitter words being spewed at you, and you hate even more that you are reacting to them.

Your eyes feel warm and moist. Maybe from the sudden rise of anger, or maybe from a completely separate emotion. Either way, you are sick with it.

“Closed doors,” you hiss, the only defense that comes to mind. It comes out more broken than you intended. “I am not me, and you are not you. That is what you said. That is the game. That—that was the rule.”

“Oh, but we are not behind closed doors now, are we?”

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, turning away. But not before you feel a lone, traitorous tear slip from your waterline.

His cruelty only continues, his mocking laugh rising into the cold night air. He is not even looking at you anymore, not even paying you the decency of an icy stare.

His gaze is locked onto your neck, examining his handiwork that you can practically feel blooming there.

A mark that would require cover-up come the morning.

“No,” he answers for himself in a low voice, bringing a pale finger up to ghost across the marred skin. “No, we are in my mother’s garden, outside, for anyone who should walk in to see. Tell me—will you be thinking of me when my brother claims you tomorrow evening? Will I invade your thoughts even while his hands touch the same places mine do?”

A quiet sob, ripped from the deepest and most vulnerable parts of your soul, wracks you.

You feel his entire body tense up, as if only just realizing the emotions he had caused to run loose. You wait for a snide remark, an admonishment for being so weak, but it does not come.

You don’t feel him touching you anymore, either.

Reluctantly, slowly, you open your eyes.

Loki is watching you from a few steps away, his eyes no longer hostile. His mouth is parted, not speaking.

Wounded. His expression is wounded.

Humiliation washes over you anew, scalding and potent.

For giving in, for letting him ever get the best of you, and for leaving yourself this open for him.

Vulnerable.

So fucking vulnerable.

“I hate you," you tell him, though the conviction sounds empty.

Not enough bite, too much sorrow.

“I hate you for touching me and making me crave it," you choke out, a confession. “I hate you for hating me. And- and—”

And.

Loki listens silently, waiting. Not for permission but, rather, for continuation.

Your fists curl by your sides.

"I hate that I don’t hate you nearly as much as I want to." Another tear trickles down, joining the rest on your cheeks. “And I don’t understand what I ever did to make you despise me so. What is it about me that disgusts you so much?"

It should feel good—freeing, even. You have just lanced a festering wound on your psyche.

It doesn't feel good, though. Not even a little.

It just feels like a burden, a thing that has been bothering you for longer than you've realized.

You fall silent, allowing your heart and soul to recover. Your chest is heaving with your own laborious breaths, but you are finally free to inhale and exhale. Free to clear your lungs of the rotten scent and taste that had lingered there since you stepped foot in the garden.

Loki's brow is slightly furrowed, a careful consideration reflected in his gaze. Even drunk off his arse, he still manages to be in possession of his mind. Somewhat.

He says nothing.

The silence makes you burn. You can't take it anymore; you can't sit here while he pretends you don't exist.

Can't stay one more second.

“Fine,” you spit, wiping your eyes dry and shaking your head. "Play your games alone. I am going inside. Big day tomorrow.”

You push past him, towards the pathway that will lead you out of the gardens and back into the castle, but he catches your arm. Loose enough that you can pull free, but tight enough to insist.

"Wait."

You tense, stilling. The word isn’t demanding. It is quiet, restrained. Soft, even.

"Why?"

When you look back, he looks at a loss. Lost, more vulnerable and exposed than he has ever seemed.

He is quiet for another moment as he takes you in.

There is no pride, no triumph, no condescension, or gloating.

Just him.

The mask is gone, and now you are seeing what is below the surface.

You wait, desperately anticipating his response. He will either crush your last vestige of hope or finally give you a shred of realness. Something beyond his typical, poison-coated taunts.

“When Thor and I traveled to Jotunheim," he begins, taking a deep breath. "Before we returned to the Bifrost site, I discovered my true parentage. A cursed existence. Laufey was— is… my father.”

He says this without any grandeur, without the usual drawl he carries on a normal day. It is plain. Bare and void of his typical vanity.

You blink, struggling to comprehend what you are being told.

"That is..." Your tongue falters, trying and failing to make sense of what you are hearing. "How?"

Loki shrugs. His attempt at casualness is pitiable, but he looks close to death, as if this information were costing him every piece of will and sanity to speak. "A spoil of war, I suppose. Like a trinket from a conquered territory, passed onto his enemy. Why is unimportant; what is relevant is that it is the truth."

He's quiet for a beat, averting his eyes. His throat constricts, the movement barely noticeable except to the eyes that knew every facet of him.

“Why are you telling me this now?"

His hold on you loosens and then lets go entirely, a final display of hesitance.

He shakes his head, scoffing. "It hardly matters, does it? Nothing will change."

These are the first pieces to understanding him. The answer was right in front of you, and you had never truly paid it any mind before. His distaste when he spoke of himself. The hidden bitterness underneath the smooth drawl as he addressed Thor as his brother. The indifference when the word parent or family or love was so much as mentioned. Even now, the way his fingers twitch by his side. An unconscious tic he has when nervous.

Always fighting some invisible battle.

“It matters to you," you murmur, your eyes never straying from him.

At those words, Loki's jaw visibly clenches. His expression shifts minutely, almost imperceptibly, but enough that you recognize the softening in his features.

“You want to truly know what drives my hatred for you?" His words are tight and drawn. It's like he is choking them out.

You nod.

And finally, the facade shatters.

"Because Thor had everything." His tone is acerbic. The words fall heavy, saturated in pent-up bitterness. “The admiration of everyone he met, the adoration of the realm. I was overshadowed. At every turn, people spoke of the great and noble prince Thor, the next future king of Asgard. But I was the dark shadow behind him.”

You stay silent as he speaks, fearing that one wrong word or motion could shut him up. This was the truth, unfiltered and uncontrolled. Finally, something more than venom.

More than hate.

“And then you… little princess of Aelfheim. Perfect child. Beautiful, radiant. Born for the sole purpose of being sold to the crown, a guarantee for the security and prosperity of both realms.” He chuckled quietly, mirthlessly. His shoulders slumped with a heavy defeat. "Your parents were even more eager than mine to arrange a union."

They never spoke of this in front of you, though you always assumed that your birth was a political strategy. They certainly made no effort to hide it, nor did they disguise the reality that this was to be your duty as a princess.

You did not blame them; you accepted it willingly and without qualms. This is the reality. This is the curse.

Still, to have confirmation of it...

You drop your chin, turning away so he can not see your reaction. It was a bitter pill, but one that could not be spit out. You could only swallow it.

“That does not explain why you hate me," you reply, struggling to keep your tone neutral.

His response is almost immediate.

"Because you chose Thor,” he hisses. "Again, and again, and again. Always following, always lingering, always right on his heels. Praising and admiring and idolizing him. Just like everyone else.”

He laughs bitterly, turning his eyes to the sky as if cursing the universe. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and you can sense his hurt.

"I suppose it does not matter. Odin never would have approved of anything between us. A frost giant and his political puppet... it would have been an embarrassment and an insult to Asgard. None of us had a choice, and in the end, none of our wishes would have mattered. It is probably for the best that you at least have the illusion of autonomy.”

And so the truth was laid before you, bleeding and raw. A confession that no words of solace could ease.

Still, you did not want anything left unsaid.

"You were wrong." Your admission was whispered, quieter than the sound of a breeze running through the leaves, but the words echoed clearly in the emptiness of the garden.

Loki did not move. Neither did you.

"About?"

"Me."

You finally gather the courage to meet his gaze. As always, those striking emerald eyes bore into you, holding you prisoner.

“For many years," you continue, "I chased Thor and looked up to him; that is true."

And it was the truth. You had looked to him for friendship and camaraderie and adventure, and you had found it. He made life a little brighter. You made him laugh, and in turn he made you feel appreciated. Like you had a place within Asgard, too.

You had cared for Thor.

You still do.

“He was my first friend,” you murmur. "But... Loki, I was a child. We both were, and I loved him like one would a sibling. I tried to befriend you. I would always chase after you, try to gain your attention, show you my toys, make conversation. I was so desperate."

The words spill from your lips. Finally, you can allow yourself to revisit that old part of yourself. All the desperation, the clinging, and the rejection.

"You wouldn't give me the time of day. You always ignored me, cast aside my words, or put up that wall you were always so adept at erecting. I grew tired of the rejections, so I tried a different tact."

Arguing. Contests. Things he responded to.

Things that required skill, wit, and poise.

He had taught you how to be sharp.

"If this is supposed to be some pathetic attempt at placating me—"

"I'm not placating you," you interject, shaking your head. "All of it is true. Why do you think I challenged you in the training grounds the same day Thor's and my engagement was announced?”

You were certainly no fighter. Everyone was fully aware that the only weapon you knew how to properly wield was your tongue. That day in particular, you had walked out into the heat of battle clad in your silken dress and slippers.

“I always assumed it was simply childish antics," he says quietly.

“I was scared. Lonely,” you correct. “I had no one to talk to. My parents expect me to make myself compliant—to happily fit into the mold I am destined to. Questioning an engagement I have had looming over my head my whole life? No. Unacceptable.”

“And Thor?”

"Is not my confidant. He is my prince, not my... " You shake your head. "His responsibilities rule over his emotions. Our friendship does not extend beyond the expectations of two realms. Even had I confessed to him, what could he have done? Not even Sif's true love for him can bend him from his responsibilities."

The only sound is the water flowing behind you. A quiet trickle and the splash of gentle ripples.

“Nor am I your confidant,” he murmurs after a beat. “You mentioned none of the sort to me in our time together, only annoyance. In fact, I quite recall you telling me, rather bluntly, that you hoped I would spontaneously catch a horrible illness or suffer an unfortunate accident after that particular spare.”

He seems to have finally found his wit again, though the humor falls a bit flat.

"But you knew," you accuse, not quite believing your own words. Rather, it was a question. A plea for confirmation. "You knew I needed you that day. Otherwise, you never would have engaged, would not have found the effort to play along. You knew I needed a distraction."

He has to know. You need him to.

He says nothing, though he watches you. The ghost of a smile passes over his lips.

It's good enough.

Slowly, you step towards him, bridging the distance.

He smells like he has been dipped into an ale barrel and rolled around the streets, but it does not deter you. You inhale slowly, letting the scent wash over you.

It is uniquely him.

Shockingly, his hand brushes your cheek and cradles the side of your face.

A tender touch. A loving stroke.

For a moment, you close your eyes and pretend there was no veil and no forced arrangements and no shattered dreams. There were no titles and no worlds and no expectations. Just this garden, and you and him.

When you open your eyes, you see the same warmth mirrored within his. He is here now.

He is present.

You don’t even realize that you are still crying until you feel the faint brush of his thumb stroking the tears away.

"Don’t marry Thor," he murmurs.

Your chest constricts. Somehow, it hurts worse than anything he has said previously, including everything in his drunken tirade.

You take a moment. Then another. Finally, you breathe.

"You know I must," you answer hoarsely.

A small smile. "Always so logical, even at the worst of times."

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut.

This time, he kisses you gently. It is a different feeling entirely. It is calm and patient. Slow and deep.

Coveting.

As if memorizing every detail.

As if this is his goodbye.

It takes you by surprise, but not for long. The contact is achingly familiar and safe, but before you can lean into it, his mouth disappears.

He strokes your face once more. You sigh, allowing yourself this final moment of intimacy before it is gone forever.

There are a lot of words left unsaid—a million promises hanging in the air, just waiting to be uttered.

But, in the end, neither of you can make them.

Too stubborn. Too weak.

Too cowardly.

"Goodnight, princess," he murmurs. Then, Loki lets go.

You watch him go with a sense of desolate acceptance. Your lips form his name, but the word never passes into the air.

Your chest tightens until it feels like a coil is springing outward from your spine, crushing all of your bones in its grasp.

Sorrow fills you.

Anger follows close behind, seeping into your heart and feeding on the sadness.

Bitterness replaces those twin emotions soon after, curling around and digging its nails deep within you. It stays there for a long while.

‘There is no changing this. It is what must be done for the sake of our realms. What we feel matters little in comparison.’

What we feel…

matters little in comparison.

[jadekillian]

It has definitely been one of my favorite fics to write! I am so glad other’s are enjoying it as well.

Thank you for the smile (:

Part 3/4

Part 1 here, part 2 here

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗔 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗢𝗱𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻—𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝘀𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱—𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 (𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆), 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗴𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿, 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗗𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸, 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 (𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟭) 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶’𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗰𝗸, 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵, 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 (𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟭) 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝟯+(?) 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸 (𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘆), 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝗟𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝟵𝗸 (𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗹𝘂𝘁𝘀)

Guilt. It is an intense thing—something that slithers its long, crooked fingers around your throat and squeezes until accepting death would be more comforting than struggling to fill your lungs with oxygen.

Hooves dully thump against a dirt path, accompanied by the faint squeak of worn leather and the jangle of a bridle. Your arms tighten ever so slightly around Thor’s waist, your chin resting against his shoulder as he guides the angelic white stallion onward.

The morning sun is warm against your cheek, but shame is like a blanket of ice around your heart. It doesn't help that the very air smells of the younger prince, his scent present in every breath you take. You wonder, not for the first time today, if Thor can smell the traces of your floral perfume clinging to his little brother's skin too.

“We will reach the village within a few hours. Are you faring well back there, my lady?” The God of Thunder breaks the silence with a rumbling, deep voice.

You swallow thickly and nod against him, only to remember a moment later that he can't see you. You clear your throat and say, with as much confidence as you can muster, “I'm quite alright, thank you."

"That's good," he murmurs in a way that doesn't sound particularly convinced. He remains silent for another few seconds before adding on, “And you, brother? You have been uncharacteristically quiet. I am beginning to think that your tongue has been cut out."

Loki snorts derisively from several feet behind you. "Oh, please. There isn't a knife sharp enough to cut my tongue out. If there were, I would have it stuck through your eye before anyone else had a chance to wield it.”

You feel the rumble of laughter beneath your hands, as if Thor is merely amused by the idea. He never did take Loki seriously, always brushing off his brother's threats like they were nothing more than a pesky fly.

"I'd like to see you try, brother."

"Do not test me."

You sigh, your head falling back as the two argue like a pair of children. Their words begin to blur together, nothing but meaningless background noise in the grand scheme of things.

Your mind wanders back to the previous night, remembering how it felt to have Loki's soft lips moving against yours. How his fingertips burned like brands against your skin. You'd been so eager, so willing, but the memory of his touch only serves to make you want to bury your head in the sand and never come out.

What a fool you are.

What a terrible, horrible fool.

You are a lady of the court. A soon-to-be Asgardian, an elven princess. To sully yourself in such a way with the youngest prince of all people was just...it was utterly unacceptable. But it had felt so good. So wrongfully right. That was, you're certain, the part that bothers you the most. Because wanting to be taught a lesson is one thing, but actually enjoying it is entirely different.

“—You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You blink rapidly, your thoughts scattering to the wind as Loki's voice breaks through. You sit up straighter, pulling away from Thor so you can crane your neck around and glance at the god. His dark horse now trots easily beside you, the stallion's long, midnight-black mane catching the sunlight.

"I’m sorry?” You choke, your heart suddenly fluttering like a trapped bird against your ribcage.

Loki’s brows lift, his eyes catching yours and holding them prisoner. He seems to take note of your discomfort, for his lips curl upward into a devilish smirk. It is the first time today he has looked anything other than bored.

“Dueling, of course. As soon as we return to the palace, I would very much like to settle the score. If only to prove to Thor here that his overconfidence is, indeed, misplaced."

Oh.

He hadn't even been speaking to you.

Your face burns from the tips of your ears to the delicate curve of your neck. Of course that is what he is talking about—how would he possibly have known about any of the other thoughts that have been running amok through your mind? And yet, the amused glint in his eyes claim something entirely different.

You tear your gaze away, focusing instead on the rocky path. Thor merely huffs in response to Loki's remark.

“Using magic is no way to determine skill in dueling, brother," he states matter-of-factly. “Without your childish party tricks, I would best you every time. But, as it is, you are quite fond of cheating."

"I didn't hear you complaining about my 'childish party tricks' when I saved your royal, egotistical arse from those cold monsters," Loki retorts, spitting the word 'monster' out like it's a piece of rotten fruit. “A true fight is never fair. Never honest. To claim otherwise is foolhardy and delusional."

Thor doesn’t miss a beat. “I had the situation under control.”

“If by ‘under control’ you mean that you were about to be skewered through the heart like a piece of meat, then yes. You had everything well in hand."

“If neither of you shuts up right now, you won't have to worry about settling the score, for I will be the one to kill you both." You interrupt before Thor can retort, knowing that this could go on for hours if you don’t intervene. "You are both big and strong and powerful, and I am sure all the nine tremble before your very presence. Please, just give me some peace and quiet. I beg of you both."

“Oh, look at that—the princess needs a nap," Loki deadpans, lazily flipping his hand in your general direction. You're pretty sure he actually rolls his eyes, but you can't see well enough to tell. “By all means, use Thor's shoulder. You wouldn’t be the first maiden to drool on his armor.”

Your stomach clenches and your body grows rigid. There is the Loki you remember. Brash and rude, cold-hearted and callous. The very epitome of cruelty, wrapped in a pretty package. Still, you suppose you should have expected him to use your insecurities as ammunition. After all, his chamber doors were no longer closed. He had promised normalcy outside of his lessons, and he had delivered that promise tenfold.

You expect Thor to speak up on your behalf—to reprimand his brother as any true gentleman would. But instead, he shifts uneasily, adjusting the collar of his tunic.

An awful, cold feeling settles in your bones.

“Speaking of, brother,” Loki smoothly says, ignoring the tensing set of your shoulders—and there it was again. The distaste in his tone when addressing Thor as his kin—a reoccurrence since their latest trip to Jotunheim only a couple of weeks ago.

You're not entirely sure what happened, but something did. It seemed as though something changed within the youngest prince—a darkness began to stir behind those eyes. It wasn't visible to everyone, of course. It was more of a feeling than anything. A subtle shift in his demeanor that only a handful of people noticed.

You noticed.

Thor had been banished to Earth for a week as punishment for leading the group into Jotunheim, leaving you alone with Loki. In your time with him, you noticed his mood souring. He spent more time in his chambers than usual, and you often found him staring at nothing with a distant look on his face.

He continues, “You and Lady Sif spent a great deal of time together this morning, did you not?”

Thor clears his throat. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his hands tighten around the reins. "She and I train together often. What of it?"

There is a deadly silence between them before Loki chimes back in with a nonchalant, "Oh, nothing at all. I was simply curious. It sounded like a rather serious discussion for something as frivolous as sword-fighting techniques."

Your eyes narrow as they drift from the pathway to the golden hair in front of you—the thick neck and brawny shoulders, sculpted from millennia of battles and bravado. You suddenly feel ill, like someone has stabbed a hot poker into your gut.

“Loki.” His name is a warning, a low rumbling growl in the pits of Thor's throat. Whether it is an admonishment to cease his instigating or a plea to not press any further, you can't be certain.

You aren’t even sure you have the right to feel what you're feeling right now—but a strange cocktail of dread and jealousy washes over you all the same.

“What conversation?” You try to sound careless, but even you can hear the catch in your voice. The doubt, the uncertainty.

You don’t like how suddenly quiet it becomes, save for the clopping of hooves and the wind whipping through the trees.

Before you can demand that one of them actually speak up, a horn blares throughout the sky above you. You have arrived at the village market, you realize numbly. How wonderfully convenient timing.

Women, men, and children alike kneel on the roadside as your trio passes, their gazes reverent and heads tilted downward, only rising from their position once your horses come to a stop and the three of you dismount.

There is music coming from somewhere just up ahead, as well as the scents of freshly cooked meats and baked pastries. Already, vendors have begun singing the praises of their wares, each advertising themselves louder than the other. Colorful tents are set up in the main circle, drawing your gaze to where beautiful fabrics are held on display and expensive jewels glitter beneath the sun. Other vendors, you notice, sport potions, weapons, and the occasional book or scroll.

The village looks like many others on Asgard—proud stone buildings and proud citizens. Usually, Asgard's beauty would never fail to take your breath away, but today...today you are finding it a challenge to enjoy the scenery.

“Well,” Thor clears his throat, holding his arm out towards you, “shall we?"

You smile shakily, an ugly mix of emotions clawing at the inside of your chest. Still, you feign politeness and wrap your fingers around his muscular forearm. "Of course.”

Loki—eyes flashing towards the two of you—tenses visibly. He is a shadow beside you, hovering like a storm cloud. What he is thinking, you don't know, but you are certain whatever thoughts lie within his mind are far from friendly. But, rather than cause any trouble (for once), he walks ahead through the crowd, slipping effortlessly from person to person like a snake amongst the underbrush.

Unable to stop the churning of your stomach, you allow yourself to be dragged away to a tent whose banners depict that of an open eye with no color to fill the iris.

***

Several hours later finds you standing in a dimly lit bar, a half-finished, heavily watered-down drink clasped in your hands. The tavern is loud and brash, full of drunkard laughter and off-tune lute playing. There is a small bard in one corner that does an exceptional job entertaining the crowd. His voice, when heard over the clamor, is soft and melodic and wraps around your aching mind like a balm.

You try to focus on it.

You try to focus on anything other than the cryptic reading you'd received from the blind seer that sat cross-legged on the rickety floor of her tent. When you'd entered the dreary little den with Thor by your side, she had tsk'ed as you stood before her. Her wrinkled hands had slowly roamed your face, fingertips cold as death. She'd called you royalty, a woman of two worlds—half in the sun, the other half shrouded in shadow.

"A destiny riddled with sin and secrets," she murmured, almost sympathetically, "your fate shall be forged in the embers of two raging hearts. But whether your ashes shine gold or black will rest solely on your decision."

She'd then taken your hands in hers, clasping them so tight you feared your bones would grind against one another. "It is already muddied, this line of decision," she hissed. "Be certain you've made the correct choice when the time comes."

You had an aching suspicion as to what those words were meant to imply, but you quashed it down immediately. The only choice you had to make was to accept the inevitable, to join Thor and fulfill your duty as a princess. The point of this whole trip, after all, was to assure Odin and Frigga that you were worthy. Worthy to inherit the crown. Worthy to someday become queen. Worthy to continue the royal line.

A bit too late, it seemed. You knew not why this order came so suddenly, but you had a vague suspicion it had everything to do with the look Queen Frigga had given you last night at breakfast. A look of suspicion—questioning. As if she were silently probing into your deepest thoughts, rummaging through the contents, and silently evaluating you. You feared she knew somehow about your betrayal, and that's the reason why she had arranged for a meeting between you and the seer.

Or, maybe you were just paranoid.

You were a traitor. Not only to Thor, but to yourself as well. You were, like the seer said, a woman living two lives. In the light, you were a princess. Dutiful and docile. But in the dark, behind closed doors, you craved something you shouldn't. Something—someone—not meant for you.

You had prepared yourself, or at least tried to, for today to be the end of a road. The milky-eyed woman would deem you unworthy and incapable, and Odin would deny the union. You could return to Alfheim and try to forget any of this ever happened. Go back to your family and your duties, and spend a thousand lifetimes trying to feel satisfied.

But she hadn't rejected you—and you'd never been more confused.

"You will someday make a wise and brave queen." Her breathless whisper was her final prediction, voice cracking from age and abuse, "Though only in one of these worlds will that hold true, my lady. Choose wisely, for once you choose, you will commit."

Her words echoed within your head like the banging of a gong. Made you doubt. Made you question. It seemed simple enough what she was saying—Thor or Loki. Sunshine or shadow. It almost seemed ridiculous, because of course your choice was Thor. It had always been Thor, hadn't it? You loved him. You were grateful for him. Yet you found your traitorous eyes straying, glimpsing the dark prince sitting across the room at a secluded corner, and, gods help you, every part of your being yearned for his touch again.

You sigh into your drink, closing your eyes as the bard's song came to an end. When you peek open your lids, you find Loki watching you. He's angled in the shadows, barely illuminated by the low-burning candles perched atop the wooden tables. He doesn't smirk or leer. He just holds your gaze—like a predator—until you break away first.

"It is rather late." Thor takes your attention briefly. He finishes the rest of his mead and pushes his empty flagon forward. "Perhaps it is best we leave. If we wish to get back to the palace before the celebration feast, then we mustn't dawdle any longer."

"Right… the feast," you murmur, unable to keep the disappointment out of your voice. You down the rest of your mead, the unpleasant taste barely noticeable at this point. You hate those formal celebrations. Hate the noise, the overly extravagant dresses you were forced to wear, and mostly you hated the amount of etiquette that was required.

Thor's face flashes with understanding. He understands you more than you could ever give him credit for. The two of you did grow up together, after all.

"Then again," he drawls, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint smile, "I have had much to drink. So much so that, I'm sure, one can't blame me if I happen to, ah... pass out before we even have the chance to reach the stables. Maybe we should rest for the night? Until my senses return, of course."

A soft sound leaves your throat, a sound that falls somewhere between a huff and a chuckle. "Now that would be awfully irresponsible, wouldn't it?"

He grins at you. "Only just a little…"

Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve, your teeth anxiously gnawing at your lower lip. You contemplate it for all of three seconds before finally offering a small nod of agreement.

"I would like that."

"It's settled then," Thor concludes, standing from his chair and, not without the dramatics of course, promptly stumbles as if on cue. He chuckles, bracing a hand against the table for support.

"By the gods," you say, rolling your eyes but smiling. "You're an awful actor."

"I do believe I should request to use the bed. Can't have me sleeping in the dirt, now can we?" He waggles his brows playfully before reaching towards his pocket and laying a couple of gold coins on the tabletop. "Three rooms."

The burly, dark-haired man that had only a moment earlier been conversing with Thor while pouring another round of drinks, gives a nervous grin. His shoulders drop ever so slightly.

"O-oh, of course, Your Highness. But, if I may, the rooms...we only have two available for the night." His voice trembles just as much as his hands do. "I must apologize; if I'd known you'd be stopping by, I would have made arrangements—"

"Two rooms will be sufficient," Thor says, cutting the other man off before he has a chance to launch into a guilt-ridden ramble.

You interject, as if proper decorum suddenly mattered. "Thor, we can not lay our heads in the same place before our nuptials. It simply isn't acceptable."

"Ah," he waves his hand, unconcerned, "there's no need to worry. I am sure that Loki will have no objections to sharing a room with me"

You notice, in the way you can't quite help it, Loki's gaze lift up. His eyebrows draw together, his expression completely and utterly dubious. He had been listening the entire time—not that this revelation came as any shock to you.

Thor strides across the tavern floor and towards his brother. He slaps Loki good-naturedly on the shoulder as he sits.

"And what, pray tell," Loki muses, his tone laced with nothing but boredom as he casually spins the dagger in his hand, the silver blade dancing between each of his long, pale fingers, "would lead you to think that I have any desire to be kept up all night with your incessant snoring?"

"It isn't any different from having to put up with your quiet sulking."

The blade stills in his hand. You find yourself unconsciously leaning forward to better hear their hushed bickering.

"I do not 'sulk,'" Loki mutters. "I simply prefer silence. Something I won't get if I have to share a room with you."

"Well," Thor grunts, arms folded tightly across his broad chest. "My intended and I are staying the night here, and as per per tradition we can not share the same room. Your choice is to either take your horse and ride back to the palace or bunker down here with me for the time being."

It was in that moment you saw the idea formulate behind Loki's narrowed eyes, so perfectly visible his mind's machinations. The sly tilt of his head, the curious set of his brows. It was as if every star within the galaxy had aligned at that single moment of clarity. And the next words to spill from the youngest prince's mouth make your entire stomach sink.

“So I will share a room with her." He nods his chin towards where you sit frozen. "If you don't mind, of course. But she will be family soon enough, and I grow tired of our bickering. It would do good to move past our childish hatred and work towards an actual civil relationship. What better way than to spend a quiet night in each other's company?"

Oh, he was clever. So very, very clever.

And Thor, the poor drunk fool, fell into his brother's carefully spun trap. Hook, line, and sinker. The look of worry on Thor’s face, however, isn't lost on you. For a moment you believe it is due to the obvious—the prospect of you and the Trickster alone, in a dark room, while Thor is unbearably sloshed—but then you overhear his low muttered words.

“What you heard today—"

"-Does not concern me," Loki cuts him off curtly. "That was your conversation, not mine. Let us leave it at that, and we will talk no more of this."

'It sounded like a rather serious discussion for something as frivolous as sword-fighting techniques.'

You gulp back the nerves building in the back of your throat. Tonight was going to be a long, sleepless night.

***

The room is smaller than you anticipated. Much smaller.

In the center sits a singular queen-sized bed, layered thick with pillows and furs and blankets. There isn't much to it apart from that. Only a simple fireplace and a tall wooden armoire stacked in one corner with a dresser settled beside it. The walls are a rusted red color with the paint chipping off the craggy surface. It was the type of room only fit for weary travelers, dirty from weeks of travel and seeking cheap rest.

"Well, it's quaint." Loki shrugs his jacket off and neatly drapes it over the back of a wooden stool as he locks the door shut with a flick of his wrist. "At the very least, it will serve its purpose for tonight."

You can not find it in you to agree.

"Quaint would be the politest definition I'd use," you mutter as you cross the small room and gently swipe your fingers across the bedspread. It was rough and coarse, a contrast to the velvety sheets of your personal chambers.

"Spoiled little elf," he murmurs, humorlessly chuckling at your disapproving frown.

"You speak as if we both did not grow up as royalty," you retort.

"That may be, but I know how to carry on when that comfort is lost. You," he pauses, lips pursing into a thin line, "not so much."

You bristle, straightening your back. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

He sighs, as if he's growing tired of this conversation already. As if he weren't the one to invite himself into your space.

You helplessly wonder if he is talking about physical luxuries or if he is speaking of something else entirely. Something more personal. Either way, you don't care for the insinuation nor his condescending tone.

A deep breath fills your lungs. In and out, slowly. Calmly. "What are you doing here?"

“To teach you.”

It is said with such simplicity, such finality, that you can't help but stare. He stares right back, face devoid of anything you could pinpoint. Emotionless.

“No,” you shake your head, confusion marring your brow. "I mean, why did you come with us today? Only Thor was needed to witness my reading. You had no purpose here."

A pause. Then, "Would you rather I hadn't?"

Yes. No. You didn't know.

The question hung heavily in the air, waiting for an answer. An answer you did not have. Your stomach rolls like a ship in a storm, and you feel as if you could very well be sick.

“I asked you a question first," you insist.

He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

“I wanted to spend time with my brother and his future bride. Is that so difficult to believe?"

Another step towards you. Another step away from him.

“Yes,” you bite, your back colliding with the wall. The coolness seeps through your dress like ice water, and you shiver, though you do not know if it is due to the temperature or the way he was looking at you. Like a starved man eyeing a feast.

You didn't understand it. How could he be so indifferent one moment, then the next look at you like he wanted nothing more than to consume you whole?

“Tell me what you overheard this morning,” you whisper, changing tactics.

His head tilts just the slightest. It's a gesture you've come to learn means he is contemplating something. You can see the gears turning inside his head. Weighing the pros and cons of giving in to your request.

“Do you purposely live life with your eyes closed, princess?" He asks instead. His hand, so suddenly, is touching your cheek. Gently, his fingertips trace the sharp curve of your cheekbone. His touch is freezing, as cold as a winter wind. "Or do you simply choose to ignore what is directly in front of you?"

“Stop with the riddles," you breathe, though there is no conviction behind it. "Just...tell me."

For the first time since you’ve met him, he appears uncertain. It is a look that doesn't suit him. He stands before you, lips pursed tightly together and his brow creased with lines of worry. For once, he actually looks as if he were searching for the correct words.

You hold your breath, waiting.

“He has not betrayed you if that is what you are concerned about," he finally answers, his tone careful. Treading on thin ice. "But he does have secrets. As do you, need I remind you?"

Your pulse races beneath your skin, thudding so loudly you're positive he can hear it too. You want to ask him what he means, want to ask him how he knows, but your tongue is thick in your mouth and you are suddenly too afraid of the answer.

The pads of his fingers trail down your jaw. You tremble beneath the light touch, eyes closing briefly.

"But I am not here to speak of my brother,” he continues, voice soft as silk. His touch leaves your face, only to glide along the side of your neck, and you find yourself leaning into the coolness of his caress. "Closed doors, remember?”

You nod, dumbly, because it is all you can do.

“I want you to look at me."

You obey, much to your own surprise.

He's closer somehow. The heat radiating off his body is tangible, warming you to your very core. It feels nice in contrast to the chill of his skin.

“Tell me, what was our previous lesson?” His thumb sweeps across your lower lip, pressing into the plump flesh. "Be a good girl and remind me."

Oh.

You swallow the lump that is steadily forming in your throat. “Pleasure.”

“Pleasure,” he repeats, a small, approving smile curling at his mouth. "And did you enjoy it?"

It feels like a trick.

A trap, waiting for you to fall right into the jaws of it.

You can't trust him.

You shouldn't trust him.

Yet still the word slips from your lips.

"Yes."

There is no hiding the flash of desire that flits across his face. His pupils widen, nearly taking up the entirety of his iris.

“And?” He coaxes.

It takes you a moment to realize what he's waiting for.

“Letting go of shame,” you whisper.

“Then why are you holding onto it now?" He murmurs. "Why are you hesitating?"

“I-"

"It is simple. Do not overthink it." He leans down, his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. His teeth graze the pointed tip, and your heart jumps inside your chest. "All you were required to do last night was take, but now...now you will learn to give.”

The pressure of his hand presses down onto your shoulder, gentle but demanding. One moment you were standing on shaky knees, and the next you were kneeling.

It is belittling. Humiliating. But the way in which he looks at you, his mouth set and his jaw tense, is almost empowering. Almost.

“Lesson number two,” he bends down until the two of you are at eye level, “is service."

He watches you, no doubt scrutinizing every expression that passes across your face. You dare not look away, despite the anxious churning in the pit of your stomach.

He presses the tip of his middle finger against your mouth, sliding it past your parted lips and onto the slick surface of your tongue.

"Suck." He orders.

You nearly choke at the sheer vulgarity of it. Surely that could not feel pleasurable, could it? All the times you'd overheard the crude stories from drunk men in the taverns, how in-detailed they'd often been with their lewd descriptions of their sexual conquests, you'd never heard anything like this.

Usually it was a...well...mouth on a person's—on their...

The thought alone makes your face burn hotter than fire. Loki seems to catch on to where your mind had wandered, for he is barely containing the smug grin stretching his lips.

“Do not tell me you know not how to press your lips together and suction.” His tone is every bit condescending and patronizing. A quiet rumble of laughter reverberates throughout his chest as his eyes narrow the slightest bit. “If that is is truly the case, then I have much more work ahead of me than I'd originally intended.”

If only looks could kill, Loki would be dying a most horrible death.

You latch onto his digit, hollow cheeks forming around the thin width. You think, just for a brief moment, of biting down and tearing it right from the knuckle. That would wipe that nauseating smirk right off his face. It would put him in his place. It would—

Without warning, he pushes his index finger into your mouth as well, the digits bumping against your teeth. Deeper and deeper they go, until the pads touch the velvety flesh of your throat.

Your lashes flutter wildly, and against your volition they build wet and thick with the threat of tears. What you can see through your blurred vision of Loki is his slack expression, his brow knitted and his eyes rounded with something akin to fascination. Or maybe even wonder.

“No gag reflex," he murmurs, seemingly to himself. "Now, isn't that a pleasant surprise?"

He speaks as if you are some foreign thing to be studied. Locked away within a glass encasement like a curated artifact. A prized possession.

Innocent as you may be, you were certainly no ignorant little girl. You knew exactly what that reaction meant to him. Exactly what he had insinuated in his low, sultry tone. But suddenly your knowledge seems severely lacking. Childish, compared to his experience.

Shame. It was the first logical emotion you felt, and the only one that was apparently forbidden. He didn't want you to have shame, just as he did not want you to overthink. So for now, you had nothing else left but to accept, to let go. Even if you were not so sure of the rules of this little game he was playing.

If growing up in Asgard as an elven outcast had taught you anything, it was to fake confidence, even when you lacked it. To have pride, regardless.

So you do exactly that.

You roll your tongue against the intruding fingers, holding them captive within your warm, wet mouth.

Were you expected to actually suckle? Or did the visual alone satiate him? Perhaps the sight of you, face flushed and on your knees, was satisfactory enough.

Before you could dwell any further, he abruptly slid his wet, glistening fingers from the cage of your mouth. Saliva coats the appendages and links a thin line to your lips until the tension snaps and sloppily drops down your chin.

You quickly wipe the back of your hand over your mouth, glancing up at him under heavy lids. He's watching you with an intensity that makes you clench your thighs together and rub them subtly, your mind taking you back to the way he had touched you the night before.

Slow, gentle, precise.

"Tell me," you breathe, the tip of your tongue darting out to trace the plumpness of your bottom lip. You barely acknowledge the way his gaze follows the motion. "What would you have me do next?"

His expression twists just the slightest, nostrils flaring and jaw taut. As if whatever it was that had formed in his mind, whatever he had wanted to say next, had died before even having the chance to be spoken aloud.

It seems, in the briefest of seconds, an entire debate brews behind his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards before he decides upon, simply, "I will have you will pay me the same courtesy I did for you."

By that, of course, he was speaking of last night.

The incessant beating of your heart thrums throughout your entire body like a thousand small drums. Could you? Could you actually open your mouth and taste him like he had done with you?

To feel him jerk and twitch and come apart on your tongue and lips. What would the consistency be like, the taste of it?

You were about to learn.

He takes your hand and places it over his crotch, curving your palm over the hardening ridge straining against the thick material of his leathers. You gulp, your fingers curling involuntarily over the shape.

He's watching so intently, and a shiver goes up the expanse of your spine.

You look at him for what feels like an eternity. Into those green eyes, murky with desire and flecked with shards of gold. It is easy to lose yourself in those hues. It is easy to forget why you shouldn't want to seek him out.

Thor is in the next room. Unaware and trustingly asleep, blissfully ignorant of the treacherous deed his fiancée and brother were currently committing against him.

'You will not look at me as Thor’s brother, nor yourself as his betrothed. When those doors close, those titles have no significance or power. Only pleasure.'

Loki’s past words echo like a prayer inside the corridors of your mind. And god help you, the guilt that threatened to swallow you whole slowly dissipated.

You were doing this for Thor, after all. It meant nothing. It was merely practice—an exchange of teachings.

That was it.

It didn't matter.

It… it just didn't.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, interrupting the buzz inside your head. There is nothing mocking or cocky in the question—the inquiry is genuine.

Maybe, if your fingers hadn't been on his rapidly hardening length, if his knuckles hadn't been sweeping your neck ever-so-tenderly, you would've said no. But those circumstances weren't currently present, so you take a steadying breath and reply,

"Yes."

His lips quirk a little.

"Yes, what?" He teases, sliding his thumb along the hollow of your throat.

"I—yes," you repeat, pausing. "I am...okay with this. More than okay. I-"

I want this, you're about to say. Because in truth, you do. A little too much. But the admission burns itself before it has a chance to seep free from your lungs. Instead, you change it into "I want you to teach me."

There is a tick to his jaw as he registers your response, like it took him all of his willpower to not growl the filthiest obscenities right into your face.

He tilts his head, almost thoughtfully. "Such a brave little thing," he drawls. "Are you nervous?"

"Not of you," you say quickly. "It's...it's just new. Unfamiliar."

He brushes away the strands of hair sticking to your cheek, the ghost of his finger lingering on your cheekbone. "Trust your instincts." He hums, "Your body will know what to do."

You experimentally squeeze and are awarded a sharp inhale for your efforts. Encouraged, you continue with a slow and steady friction, delighting in the way the bulge grows larger and stiffer underneath your curious hand. Up and down, up and down, rubbing the hardening length through his ridiculously tight-fitting pants.

Your eyes and mind battle for dominance over where to stare. On the shape of him, straining so deliciously against your caress, or at his reactions.

A soft squeeze, then a firmer press of the palm. You watch his face the entire time, hoping to read something—anything—to indicate your actions are indeed pleasing him.

What feels nice? What doesn’t?

You were playing, and he was letting you explore freely. No rush to your exploration, no expectations.

Within minutes, you have come to learn that his breathing grows the fastest when you follow the natural curve of his length and softly drag your thumb at the very tip. He is the most sensitive there, you determine.

The first time it twitches, you glance at him to make sure you hadn’t accidentally hurt him. The second time it happens, his mouth parts on a skillfully contained sound. You realize, by the third instance, that it is because he likes it.

You feel strangely proud of that.

Feeling brave, you lean in to press a small kiss onto the mound, tentatively flicking your eyes upwards to look for the prince's approval. He gives it to you in the form of an encouraging nod, the veins in his neck tight.

You don’t miss the small sigh that follows as soon as your mouth reconnects with his fabric-clad member.

His fingertips slide into your hair, knotting themselves through the strands. Not controlling or forceful, merely there—anchoring and guiding.

“Norns help me," you hear him mutter under his breath, hissing sharply through clenched teeth. It was so quiet, barely audible and rasped. You think, perhaps, you weren’t meant to hear it.

“Take off the belt," he orders softly, regaining himself. There is no tremor or break in his voice—just control. Like he isn't unraveling bit by bit, a loose string ready to fall apart. “Slowly.”

He draws his hips away enough to accommodate the pull of his belt, the thick piece of leather clanking obnoxiously as you poorly attempt to work it free.

What should have been a two-second task, no longer than five, you struggle with for the duration of an excruciating eternity.

He could have helped you with the buckle, easily disassembled it with a snap of his fingers—but no, it is apparent Loki enjoys watching your awkward squirming as your nails scrape against the bronze piece.

“Do you need a hint?" He remarks dryly, no longer attempting to hold his amusement in. "The buckle goes through—"

“Don’t be condescending," you hiss.

He merely chuckles.

Finally—thank the gods, finally—he places his hands atop yours, stilling your failed attempts.

“Luckily for you, and perhaps all of Asgard, ceremonial gowns are required to be worn before the official union," he quips, effortlessly tugging the stubborn strap through. "Else I fear the entire realm and its guests would be subjected to a rather painfully boring and long night come tomorrow."

“So if undoing a belt isn’t a skill necessary for me to learn, then pray tell, why did you have me attempt it?" You snap, more venomously than needed.

Your comment doesn't earn any of his ire. Quite the opposite, as it merely serves to widen his grin.

Then he is leaning down, nose to nose. His face so dangerously close to yours. For a moment all you can do is hold your breath as his mouth, a hair's width away, ghosts over the plush swell of your lips. You wonder if he's going to actually kiss you. For a single, mad second, you want him to.

He does not.

“Because seeing you get ruffled is quickly becoming one of my favorite pastimes," he whispers.

You feel something cool and heavy slide around your neck. Smooth. Solid. Tight but not suffocating. It only takes a second for you to realize he was fastening the length of his belt around your throat, like a noose ready for hanging.

He slips a finger under the leather and gives a small tug, testing the makeshift restraint before straightening his back once more. All while holding the remaining portion of the belt tightly bound between his closed fist.

“And," he continues, a sharp jerk of his hand causing you to fall forward on your hands and knees, “I did warn you at the very beginning of our little arrangement, didn't I?”

He slowly begins to walk backwards, each step pulling you in tow until eventually he reaches the edge of the bed and sits with legs splayed wide and comfortable.

“I will teach you all you need to know, but the plan had always been to ruin you. To burn myself so intensely into your mind that no one—no matter the touch or the effort put towards pleasure—could possibly ever compare to that which you will receive from me."

You find yourself kneeling in front of the apex of his thighs, face level to his groin. You could only guess you had a ridiculous expression of bewilderment plastered to your visage, mouth parted on silent words.

He had warned you.

What a fool you were for ever doubting his promises.

“What then? Do you intend to—to turn me into a proper whore?" you manage to utter. "To crave you? Crave this?"

You had intended for it to seem more bitter than it sounded, more indignation and not desperate curiosity.

But he sees straight past the walls. Past your intentions and into your soul. The same soul that that seer had proclaimed to be torn in half—half dark and half light—which, right now, was rapidly bleeding into the shadows.

Dark and dank and ravenous.

“Well… it would be a shame to only accomplish one out of two goals,” he grins lazily, completely shameless.

You have nothing more to offer to that remark.

The belt wrapped around your throat is only pulled tighter as he gently ushers you closer to his crotch. So close that the intoxicating smell of musk, leather, and the slight remnants of winter cling to your nostrils like perfume.

With a wave of his hand, he magically vanishes the fabrics and the trappings that clung to his skin, exposing himself entirely to your wide-eyed gaze.

And exposed he is, in his entirety.

Your previous view of him in the baths had been darkened and foggy—too consumed with other things to properly appraise his nakedness. Yet now, oh, how much better everything looks with clarity.

It is so terribly, painfully obscene.

He is lean muscle, all compacted tightly within alabaster skin. Soft, silken flesh covering nothing but firm and well-crafted contours. Scars speckle the surface in different lengths and varying depths, giving testament to the long and often hard years he'd spent training for combat.

Before you can even realize what you're doing, you reach a hand forward and gently trace the faint white marks.

And him?

He lets you. He lets you run the flat of your fingers across every groove and indentation. Lower and lower until eventually his needy cock bumps against the heel of your palm.

Now you had known, due to your many studies of anatomy and the way the human body was formed, what a man's manhood generally looked like. But theory and practice were vastly different experiences, and never have you truly believed that anyone could actually be so well gifted.

Now that you are really paying attention, you take notice of the length of it. Elegantly long and subtly curved, flushed rosy pink at the tip. And the thickness, easily as wide as three of your fingers joined together, was definitely enough to make your mouth feel achingly full just by looking at it.

He really was made for sin.

“It would benefit you well to breathe," he prompts with a twist of his lips.

Only then do you remember to blink, to suck in much-needed oxygen.

He wraps one large hand around the base, lazily tugging up and down its length. You couldn't believe the way your insides clenched at the sight. Couldn't believe the way he was casually—so brazenly—pleasuring himself right before your eyes.

No shame. That's what you see when you glance up at his face. No shame and no guilt whatsoever.

You feel a soft tug at the belt, the sudden force lurching you forward until your hands are braced upon each of his knees to balance yourself and your face is once more leveled to his lap.

“Focus,” he commands, the pad of his thumb smearing the slippery essence that has leaked from the tiny slit. “Not on my face, not on your thoughts. Look nowhere but at my cock. At what I am doing to it."

And like the pathetic, starved thing that you are, you obey.

You stare in unbroken fascination at the way he tugs his length with controlled, measured strokes. Slow and torturously patient. Like this was nothing to him. Just another day of fulfilling his mundane duties and not a secretive rendezvous that could be overheard at any moment if anyone cared to listen hard enough.

Then, his eyes hood, the rhythmic stroking stops, and he looks down at you through a curtain of dark lashes.

“Do as I've shown.” His cold palm engulfs your smaller one, forcing your fingers around his velvety heat and into his preferred rhythm.

Using your hand as his own personal sex toy.

It is a filthy image. Watching the head of his member disappear inside your fist, then slip out again when the stroke ends. Faster. Harder. All done in perfect sync to the dictation of Loki's hand.

“That's it, so good," he murmurs low, the slightest hitch to his voice.

You weren’t sure when you began doing it yourself, but your hand steadily continues on even after Loki removes himself altogether. Your movements were nowhere near as skillful or controlled as his had been, but they had his nostrils flared and jaw clenching so tightly you were sure the bone could shatter at any moment.

“Do not be afraid to be a little more firm," he grunts, “I will not break, I promise you. You will not hurt me."

So you squeeze, tightening your grip around him. You are rewarded with a low hiss and the jerk of his hips.

The motion is repeated again and again, and each time it elicits the same response. It is addicting. The sound, the feeling. Knowing you could make the arrogant prince writhe and twitch and curse.

You wonder what would happen if you were to lick him. To wrap your mouth around him and suck. What would his reaction be?

He said to trust your body. To trust its instincts.

Without further thought, your head dips low and the tip of your tongue flicks out, barely ghosting over the leaking head.

Loki jolts, hissing loudly through his teeth.

You quickly flinch backwards, worried that perhaps you'd actually hurt him somehow. But his hand is suddenly there, cupping the back of your skull, urging you back.

"Norns, no," he growls, the muscles in his neck bulging. "Do not stop."

There is an animalistic quality to his voice, a raw and primal edge that sets your body ablaze.

He guides you forward until the smooth flesh of his cock is sliding past your lips, bumping against your teeth and touching the roof of your mouth.

He tastes...

You have no words for the taste.

You were not prepared for it to be so hot, so smooth, and so soft. You were not prepared for the way your core clenches and your stomach churns at the weight of him on your tongue.

You certainly were not prepared for the toe of his boot to slither up your dress and press itself firmly against the wetness that has pooled in your underwear.

You yelp around him, the sound muffled by the sheer girth stretching your jaw.

The prince groans, the hand buried in your hair clenching tightly and holding you captive to his lap.

You squirm, grinding the wet ache of your cunt down onto his shoe. Pure instinct. You were moving entirely on autopilot. There was no rational thought.

“Such a pretty thing." The heel of his boot rotates, grinding harder against the pulsating bundle of nerves. "My pretty little whore."

My.

The word bounces around inside the confines of your skull.

My whore.

His.

His whore.

The sound you make is a pathetic one. Something between a whimper and a moan—something that was never meant to be heard by Loki, because in the end you were not his.

In the end you were to marry his brother.

His brother, who had secrets of his own, who was not above hiding things.

Who was currently asleep, ignorant to the treachery occurring behind the closed door of the bedroom he'd booked.

“Tell me," he hisses, "do you enjoy this? Enjoy having my cock in your mouth?"

A whimper slips free as his hips give a short thrust, burying himself deeper into the welcoming home of your mouth.

You can't breathe. You can't speak. Yet still you attempt a nod.

He grunts, pulling back out to allow you a gulp of air before sliding back in. This time he nestles himself so far down your spasming throat that his balls graze the underside of your chin.

You are so full.

A trickle of saliva slides past the corner of your lips as you cough and sputter.

“Relax," he murmurs, soothingly massaging the base of your skull. "Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose… yes. Yes, just like that."

And then he is guiding your head up and down, slow and deep.

Wet, squelching sounds fill the air, and you are thankful that the tavern was still at its loudest and noisiest hours.

“I wish you could see how delicious you look right now." He pulls out for a brief second, giving your mouth a moment to collect the dribbling spit that had built up, before slipping back in. “Asgard’s little elven sweetheart with a cock stuffed between her pretty pink lips. Oh, what a sight you make."

You respond by grinding harder onto the boot pressed to your clothed core.

The pleasure is building.

Your body feels like it is on fire. You were burning alive.

Was it even possible to… to finish… like this?

The way your body was reacting—it was a possibility.

“So- so divine," Loki pants, his words beginning to slur. "To have you at my feet yet reduce me to the one worshipping. My, the gods must have a twisted sense of humor."

His breath catches.

He was close, you could tell. You could feel it in the way his muscles tense and the vein in his neck throbs. The way he was losing control, his movements growing choppy and desperate.

"You have no idea the amount of restraint it takes to not simply fuck your pretty little mouth so devastatingly that you can't speak for a week. The thought alone… oh, it would be the most pleasurable form of punishment I could ever think of giving you."

Another whimper. Another grind of the heel.

You were right on the edge.

“If only you knew how often I've thought of this. Dreamt of it," he confesses with a mirthless chuckle, his voice strained. "Every time you've managed to outsmart me with your sharp little tongue. Every time you've challenged me in front of Thor or those spineless, witless buffoons he calls friends. How many times have I had to hold myself back from dragging you to my bedchamber and fucking every single drop of defiance right out of your system?”

The information washes over you like a bucket of ice water.

All the times he had stared at you like he was imagining just how he would break you down. Like he was already forming a plan on how to destroy you. You’d always assumed it was merely distaste that made him glare so heatedly.

Had it all been this?

Desire? Lust?

Had your mouth not been full, you would've told him how you'd thought the same. How you had imagined it more times than you would ever care to admit.

But that would make you just as guilty as him. Just as bad.

This was supposed to be as simple as a teaching lesson. Nothing more. It did not require dirty words or lustful admittances.

And yet, despite your internal protests, you continue to grind yourself shamelessly onto the leather of his boot and grow wetter with every sinful word.

“Yet at the same time,” he groans, his tone taking on an almost somber note. "At the same time, that fire is what draws me to you. I fear if I were to ever put it out, I'd have nothing left but ash in my hands. And what a shame that would be, since you're such a marvel to observe when you're burning."

That was it.

That was what threw you over the edge. What sent you spiraling over the cliff and into pure oblivion. Your orgasm burned white hot and spilled through your veins like a fever, robbing you of the very air within your lungs.

Even the prince shudders, every muscle in his lean physique taut and trembling as he suddenly attempts to wrench himself free.

But you don't allow him the time to do so.

Before your very mind could even wrap around the idea of what you were doing, you were suddenly pressing down on his thighs, rooting him to the spot. All it takes is a single look up at him through your lashes and a purposeful hum. Just a simple vibration of your throat. And it is over.

The groan that leaves him is entirely strained and guttural. His neck cranes backward, exposing the full column of his adam's apple. Just once he gives a strong buck of his hips, and something bitter and warm and salty hits your taste buds.

Saliva, seed, and a mixture of the two dribble down your throat, clinging to your parched tongue in thick droplets. Even as your own vision blurs and your thoughts haze, you work your mouth around the head of his cock, swallowing every hot gush of his release.

Drinking it in until he's wrung completely dry, sated and satiated.

It was… good. Addicting. Instinctively, you find yourself licking the tip clean, like a greedy animal seeking a scrap of food. The action pulls a hiss from his lips, and his whole body jerks as if you've electrocuted him with some kind of invisible force.

How interesting.

You do it again. Again and again, simply because you can.

“Okay,” he rasps, tugging sharply at the belt. This time you did not resist, releasing him from the cage of your lips. "Okay. En- Enough. That is quite enough, temptress."

Slowly, the fog evaporates from your senses, and with it the restraint around your throat. You both sit there for a long while after. Fractured breaths filling the air.

The heat that had once seared your skin had all but burned away, and an icy chill danced along your spine. It is a dangerous chill that sinks in so deep it almost chokes the life right out of you.

So unbearably quiet.

So unnervingly still.

With a single snap of his fingers, Loki returns his proper attire. However, he does not look quite like a presentable prince. Not with the disheveled mess of his hair and the paleness of his sweaty face.

Carefully, he reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you're forced to look him directly in the eyes.

You aren't sure what exactly it was that he saw in your expression. Whether he was trying to decipher whatever was going through your head or simply admire how wrecked you most likely looked. Whatever he was searching for, he didn't seem to find it.

Loki lifts his thumb to your lips, slowly swiping away the spittle that clings to the corner of your mouth.

So tender, so... gentle.

Dangerous. That's what this feeling was. Too dangerous and too tempting.

And gods, why did everything he do have to be so confusing?

Stop looking at me, you scream silently. Stop making me feel so insanely lost.

Stop not being Thor.

Loki leans forward, bridging the gap between the two of you. But not on your mouth. On your forehead, where his lips lingered briefly. When he speaks, his words are barely audible. As if they were meant only for the walls and not your ears.

"What a tangled web we have weaved."

Then, just as quickly as it happened, he was on his feet and swiftly making for the door without ever turning to glance back.

You want to call out to him. Part your lips and beg him to look at you. But he doesn't.

All he leaves you with is the aftermath.

All he leaves is silence and even more confusion.

[jadekillian]

Part 3/5

Part 1 here, part 2 here

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗔 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗢𝗱𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻—𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿�� 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝘀𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱—𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 (𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆), 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗴𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿, 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗗𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸, 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 (𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟭) 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶’𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗰𝗸, 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵, 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 (𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟭) 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝟯+(?) 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸 (𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘆), 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝗟𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝟵𝗸 (𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗹𝘂𝘁𝘀)

Guilt. It is an intense thing—something that slithers its long, crooked fingers around your throat and squeezes until accepting death would be more comforting than struggling to fill your lungs with oxygen.

Hooves dully thump against a dirt path, accompanied by the faint squeak of worn leather and the jangle of a bridle. Your arms tighten ever so slightly around Thor’s waist, your chin resting against his shoulder as he guides the angelic white stallion onward.

The morning sun is warm against your cheek, but shame is like a blanket of ice around your heart. It doesn't help that the very air smells of the younger prince, his scent present in every breath you take. You wonder, not for the first time today, if Thor can smell the traces of your floral perfume clinging to his little brother's skin too.

“We will reach the village within a few hours. Are you faring well back there, my lady?” The God of Thunder breaks the silence with a rumbling, deep voice.

You swallow thickly and nod against him, only to remember a moment later that he can't see you. You clear your throat and say, with as much confidence as you can muster, “I'm quite alright, thank you."

"That's good," he murmurs in a way that doesn't sound particularly convinced. He remains silent for another few seconds before adding on, “And you, brother? You have been uncharacteristically quiet. I am beginning to think that your tongue has been cut out."

Loki snorts derisively from several feet behind you. "Oh, please. There isn't a knife sharp enough to cut my tongue out. If there were, I would have it stuck through your eye before anyone else had a chance to wield it.”

You feel the rumble of laughter beneath your hands, as if Thor is merely amused by the idea. He never did take Loki seriously, always brushing off his brother's threats like they were nothing more than a pesky fly.

"I'd like to see you try, brother."

"Do not test me."

You sigh, your head falling back as the two argue like a pair of children. Their words begin to blur together, nothing but meaningless background noise in the grand scheme of things.

Your mind wanders back to the previous night, remembering how it felt to have Loki's soft lips moving against yours. How his fingertips burned like brands against your skin. You'd been so eager, so willing, but the memory of his touch only serves to make you want to bury your head in the sand and never come out.

What a fool you are.

What a terrible, horrible fool.

You are a lady of the court. A soon-to-be Asgardian, an elven princess. To sully yourself in such a way with the youngest prince of all people was just...it was utterly unacceptable. But it had felt so good. So wrongfully right. That was, you're certain, the part that bothers you the most. Because wanting to be taught a lesson is one thing, but actually enjoying it is entirely different.

“—You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You blink rapidly, your thoughts scattering to the wind as Loki's voice breaks through. You sit up straighter, pulling away from Thor so you can crane your neck around and glance at the god. His dark horse now trots easily beside you, the stallion's long, midnight-black mane catching the sunlight.

"I’m sorry?” You choke, your heart suddenly fluttering like a trapped bird against your ribcage.

Loki’s brows lift, his eyes catching yours and holding them prisoner. He seems to take note of your discomfort, for his lips curl upward into a devilish smirk. It is the first time today he has looked anything other than bored.

“Dueling, of course. As soon as we return to the palace, I would very much like to settle the score. If only to prove to Thor here that his overconfidence is, indeed, misplaced."

Oh.

He hadn't even been speaking to you.

Your face burns from the tips of your ears to the delicate curve of your neck. Of course that is what he is talking about—how would he possibly have known about any of the other thoughts that have been running amok through your mind? And yet, the amused glint in his eyes claim something entirely different.

You tear your gaze away, focusing instead on the rocky path. Thor merely huffs in response to Loki's remark.

“Using magic is no way to determine skill in dueling, brother," he states matter-of-factly. “Without your childish party tricks, I would best you every time. But, as it is, you are quite fond of cheating."

"I didn't hear you complaining about my 'childish party tricks' when I saved your royal, egotistical arse from those cold monsters," Loki retorts, spitting the word 'monster' out like it's a piece of rotten fruit. “A true fight is never fair. Never honest. To claim otherwise is foolhardy and delusional."

Thor doesn’t miss a beat. “I had the situation under control.”

“If by ‘under control’ you mean that you were about to be skewered through the heart like a piece of meat, then yes. You had everything well in hand."

“If neither of you shuts up right now, you won't have to worry about settling the score, for I will be the one to kill you both." You interrupt before Thor can retort, knowing that this could go on for hours if you don’t intervene. "You are both big and strong and powerful, and I am sure all the nine tremble before your very presence. Please, just give me some peace and quiet. I beg of you both."

“Oh, look at that—the princess needs a nap," Loki deadpans, lazily flipping his hand in your general direction. You're pretty sure he actually rolls his eyes, but you can't see well enough to tell. “By all means, use Thor's shoulder. You wouldn’t be the first maiden to drool on his armor.”

Your stomach clenches and your body grows rigid. There is the Loki you remember. Brash and rude, cold-hearted and callous. The very epitome of cruelty, wrapped in a pretty package. Still, you suppose you should have expected him to use your insecurities as ammunition. After all, his chamber doors were no longer closed. He had promised normalcy outside of his lessons, and he had delivered that promise tenfold.

You expect Thor to speak up on your behalf—to reprimand his brother as any true gentleman would. But instead, he shifts uneasily, adjusting the collar of his tunic.

An awful, cold feeling settles in your bones.

“Speaking of, brother,” Loki smoothly says, ignoring the tensing set of your shoulders—and there it was again. The distaste in his tone when addressing Thor as his kin—a reoccurrence since their latest trip to Jotunheim only a couple of weeks ago.

You're not entirely sure what happened, but something did. It seemed as though something changed within the youngest prince—a darkness began to stir behind those eyes. It wasn't visible to everyone, of course. It was more of a feeling than anything. A subtle shift in his demeanor that only a handful of people noticed.

You noticed.

Thor had been banished to Earth for a week as punishment for leading the group into Jotunheim, leaving you alone with Loki. In your time with him, you noticed his mood souring. He spent more time in his chambers than usual, and you often found him staring at nothing with a distant look on his face.

He continues, “You and Lady Sif spent a great deal of time together this morning, did you not?”

Thor clears his throat. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his hands tighten around the reins. "She and I train together often. What of it?"

There is a deadly silence between them before Loki chimes back in with a nonchalant, "Oh, nothing at all. I was simply curious. It sounded like a rather serious discussion for something as frivolous as sword-fighting techniques."

Your eyes narrow as they drift from the pathway to the golden hair in front of you—the thick neck and brawny shoulders, sculpted from millennia of battles and bravado. You suddenly feel ill, like someone has stabbed a hot poker into your gut.

“Loki.” His name is a warning, a low rumbling growl in the pits of Thor's throat. Whether it is an admonishment to cease his instigating or a plea to not press any further, you can't be certain.

You aren’t even sure you have the right to feel what you're feeling right now—but a strange cocktail of dread and jealousy washes over you all the same.

“What conversation?” You try to sound careless, but even you can hear the catch in your voice. The doubt, the uncertainty.

You don’t like how suddenly quiet it becomes, save for the clopping of hooves and the wind whipping through the trees.

Before you can demand that one of them actually speak up, a horn blares throughout the sky above you. You have arrived at the village market, you realize numbly. How wonderfully convenient timing.

Women, men, and children alike kneel on the roadside as your trio passes, their gazes reverent and heads tilted downward, only rising from their position once your horses come to a stop and the three of you dismount.

There is music coming from somewhere just up ahead, as well as the scents of freshly cooked meats and baked pastries. Already, vendors have begun singing the praises of their wares, each advertising themselves louder than the other. Colorful tents are set up in the main circle, drawing your gaze to where beautiful fabrics are held on display and expensive jewels glitter beneath the sun. Other vendors, you notice, sport potions, weapons, and the occasional book or scroll.

The village looks like many others on Asgard—proud stone buildings and proud citizens. Usually, Asgard's beauty would never fail to take your breath away, but today...today you are finding it a challenge to enjoy the scenery.

“Well,” Thor clears his throat, holding his arm out towards you, “shall we?"

You smile shakily, an ugly mix of emotions clawing at the inside of your chest. Still, you feign politeness and wrap your fingers around his muscular forearm. "Of course.”

Loki—eyes flashing towards the two of you—tenses visibly. He is a shadow beside you, hovering like a storm cloud. What he is thinking, you don't know, but you are certain whatever thoughts lie within his mind are far from friendly. But, rather than cause any trouble (for once), he walks ahead through the crowd, slipping effortlessly from person to person like a snake amongst the underbrush.

Unable to stop the churning of your stomach, you allow yourself to be dragged away to a tent whose banners depict that of an open eye with no color to fill the iris.

***

Several hours later finds you standing in a dimly lit bar, a half-finished, heavily watered-down drink clasped in your hands. The tavern is loud and brash, full of drunkard laughter and off-tune lute playing. There is a small bard in one corner that does an exceptional job entertaining the crowd. His voice, when heard over the clamor, is soft and melodic and wraps around your aching mind like a balm.

You try to focus on it.

You try to focus on anything other than the cryptic reading you'd received from the blind seer that sat cross-legged on the rickety floor of her tent. When you'd entered the dreary little den with Thor by your side, she had tsk'ed as you stood before her. Her wrinkled hands had slowly roamed your face, fingertips cold as death. She'd called you royalty, a woman of two worlds—half in the sun, the other half shrouded in shadow.

"A destiny riddled with sin and secrets," she murmured, almost sympathetically, "your fate shall be forged in the embers of two raging hearts. But whether your ashes shine gold or black will rest solely on your decision."

She'd then taken your hands in hers, clasping them so tight you feared your bones would grind against one another. "It is already muddied, this line of decision," she hissed. "Be certain you've made the correct choice when the time comes."

You had an aching suspicion as to what those words were meant to imply, but you quashed it down immediately. The only choice you had to make was to accept the inevitable, to join Thor and fulfill your duty as a princess. The point of this whole trip, after all, was to assure Odin and Frigga that you were worthy. Worthy to inherit the crown. Worthy to someday become queen. Worthy to continue the royal line.

A bit too late, it seemed. You knew not why this order came so suddenly, but you had a vague suspicion it had everything to do with the look Queen Frigga had given you last night at breakfast. A look of suspicion—questioning. As if she were silently probing into your deepest thoughts, rummaging through the contents, and silently evaluating you. You feared she knew somehow about your betrayal, and that's the reason why she had arranged for a meeting between you and the seer.

Or, maybe you were just paranoid.

You were a traitor. Not only to Thor, but to yourself as well. You were, like the seer said, a woman living two lives. In the light, you were a princess. Dutiful and docile. But in the dark, behind closed doors, you craved something you shouldn't. Something—someone—not meant for you.

You had prepared yourself, or at least tried to, for today to be the end of a road. The milky-eyed woman would deem you unworthy and incapable, and Odin would deny the union. You could return to Alfheim and try to forget any of this ever happened. Go back to your family and your duties, and spend a thousand lifetimes trying to feel satisfied.

But she hadn't rejected you—and you'd never been more confused.

"You will someday make a wise and brave queen." Her breathless whisper was her final prediction, voice cracking from age and abuse, "Though only in one of these worlds will that hold true, my lady. Choose wisely, for once you choose, you will commit."

Her words echoed within your head like the banging of a gong. Made you doubt. Made you question. It seemed simple enough what she was saying—Thor or Loki. Sunshine or shadow. It almost seemed ridiculous, because of course your choice was Thor. It had always been Thor, hadn't it? You loved him. You were grateful for him. Yet you found your traitorous eyes straying, glimpsing the dark prince sitting across the room at a secluded corner, and, gods help you, every part of your being yearned for his touch again.

You sigh into your drink, closing your eyes as the bard's song came to an end. When you peek open your lids, you find Loki watching you. He's angled in the shadows, barely illuminated by the low-burning candles perched atop the wooden tables. He doesn't smirk or leer. He just holds your gaze—like a predator—until you break away first.

"It is rather late." Thor takes your attention briefly. He finishes the rest of his mead and pushes his empty flagon forward. "Perhaps it is best we leave. If we wish to get back to the palace before the celebration feast, then we mustn't dawdle any longer."

"Right… the feast," you murmur, unable to keep the disappointment out of your voice. You down the rest of your mead, the unpleasant taste barely noticeable at this point. You hate those formal celebrations. Hate the noise, the overly extravagant dresses you were forced to wear, and mostly you hated the amount of etiquette that was required.

Thor's face flashes with understanding. He understands you more than you could ever give him credit for. The two of you did grow up together, after all.

"Then again," he drawls, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint smile, "I have had much to drink. So much so that, I'm sure, one can't blame me if I happen to, ah... pass out before we even have the chance to reach the stables. Maybe we should rest for the night? Until my senses return, of course."

A soft sound leaves your throat, a sound that falls somewhere between a huff and a chuckle. "Now that would be awfully irresponsible, wouldn't it?"

He grins at you. "Only just a little…"

Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve, your teeth anxiously gnawing at your lower lip. You contemplate it for all of three seconds before finally offering a small nod of agreement.

"I would like that."

"It's settled then," Thor concludes, standing from his chair and, not without the dramatics of course, promptly stumbles as if on cue. He chuckles, bracing a hand against the table for support.

"By the gods," you say, rolling your eyes but smiling. "You're an awful actor."

"I do believe I should request to use the bed. Can't have me sleeping in the dirt, now can we?" He waggles his brows playfully before reaching towards his pocket and laying a couple of gold coins on the tabletop. "Three rooms."

The burly, dark-haired man that had only a moment earlier been conversing with Thor while pouring another round of drinks, gives a nervous grin. His shoulders drop ever so slightly.

"O-oh, of course, Your Highness. But, if I may, the rooms...we only have two available for the night." His voice trembles just as much as his hands do. "I must apologize; if I'd known you'd be stopping by, I would have made arrangements—"

"Two rooms will be sufficient," Thor says, cutting the other man off before he has a chance to launch into a guilt-ridden ramble.

You interject, as if proper decorum suddenly mattered. "Thor, we can not lay our heads in the same place before our nuptials. It simply isn't acceptable."

"Ah," he waves his hand, unconcerned, "there's no need to worry. I am sure that Loki will have no objections to sharing a room with me"

You notice, in the way you can't quite help it, Loki's gaze lift up. His eyebrows draw together, his expression completely and utterly dubious. He had been listening the entire time—not that this revelation came as any shock to you.

Thor strides across the tavern floor and towards his brother. He slaps Loki good-naturedly on the shoulder as he sits.

"And what, pray tell," Loki muses, his tone laced with nothing but boredom as he casually spins the dagger in his hand, the silver blade dancing between each of his long, pale fingers, "would lead you to think that I have any desire to be kept up all night with your incessant snoring?"

"It isn't any different from having to put up with your quiet sulking."

The blade stills in his hand. You find yourself unconsciously leaning forward to better hear their hushed bickering.

"I do not 'sulk,'" Loki mutters. "I simply prefer silence. Something I won't get if I have to share a room with you."

"Well," Thor grunts, arms folded tightly across his broad chest. "My intended and I are staying the night here, and as per per tradition we can not share the same room. Your choice is to either take your horse and ride back to the palace or bunker down here with me for the time being."

It was in that moment you saw the idea formulate behind Loki's narrowed eyes, so perfectly visible his mind's machinations. The sly tilt of his head, the curious set of his brows. It was as if every star within the galaxy had aligned at that single moment of clarity. And the next words to spill from the youngest prince's mouth make your entire stomach sink.

“So I will share a room with her." He nods his chin towards where you sit frozen. "If you don't mind, of course. But she will be family soon enough, and I grow tired of our bickering. It would do good to move past our childish hatred and work towards an actual civil relationship. What better way than to spend a quiet night in each other's company?"

Oh, he was clever. So very, very clever.

And Thor, the poor drunk fool, fell into his brother's carefully spun trap. Hook, line, and sinker. The look of worry on Thor’s face, however, isn't lost on you. For a moment you believe it is due to the obvious—the prospect of you and the Trickster alone, in a dark room, while Thor is unbearably sloshed—but then you overhear his low muttered words.

“What you heard today—"

"-Does not concern me," Loki cuts him off curtly. "That was your conversation, not mine. Let us leave it at that, and we will talk no more of this."

'It sounded like a rather serious discussion for something as frivolous as sword-fighting techniques.'

You gulp back the nerves building in the back of your throat. Tonight was going to be a long, sleepless night.

***

The room is smaller than you anticipated. Much smaller.

In the center sits a singular queen-sized bed, layered thick with pillows and furs and blankets. There isn't much to it apart from that. Only a simple fireplace and a tall wooden armoire stacked in one corner with a dresser settled beside it. The walls are a rusted red color with the paint chipping off the craggy surface. It was the type of room only fit for weary travelers, dirty from weeks of travel and seeking cheap rest.

"Well, it's quaint." Loki shrugs his jacket off and neatly drapes it over the back of a wooden stool as he locks the door shut with a flick of his wrist. "At the very least, it will serve its purpose for tonight."

You can not find it in you to agree.

"Quaint would be the politest definition I'd use," you mutter as you cross the small room and gently swipe your fingers across the bedspread. It was rough and coarse, a contrast to the velvety sheets of your personal chambers.

"Spoiled little elf," he murmurs, humorlessly chuckling at your disapproving frown.

"You speak as if we both did not grow up as royalty," you retort.

"That may be, but I know how to carry on when that comfort is lost. You," he pauses, lips pursing into a thin line, "not so much."

You bristle, straightening your back. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

He sighs, as if he's growing tired of this conversation already. As if he weren't the one to invite himself into your space.

You helplessly wonder if he is talking about physical luxuries or if he is speaking of something else entirely. Something more personal. Either way, you don't care for the insinuation nor his condescending tone.

A deep breath fills your lungs. In and out, slowly. Calmly. "What are you doing here?"

“To teach you.”

It is said with such simplicity, such finality, that you can't help but stare. He stares right back, face devoid of anything you could pinpoint. Emotionless.

“No,” you shake your head, confusion marring your brow. "I mean, why did you come with us today? Only Thor was needed to witness my reading. You had no purpose here."

A pause. Then, "Would you rather I hadn't?"

Yes. No. You didn't know.

The question hung heavily in the air, waiting for an answer. An answer you did not have. Your stomach rolls like a ship in a storm, and you feel as if you could very well be sick.

“I asked you a question first," you insist.

He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

“I wanted to spend time with my brother and his future bride. Is that so difficult to believe?"

Another step towards you. Another step away from him.

“Yes,” you bite, your back colliding with the wall. The coolness seeps through your dress like ice water, and you shiver, though you do not know if it is due to the temperature or the way he was looking at you. Like a starved man eyeing a feast.

You didn't understand it. How could he be so indifferent one moment, then the next look at you like he wanted nothing more than to consume you whole?

“Tell me what you overheard this morning,” you whisper, changing tactics.

His head tilts just the slightest. It's a gesture you've come to learn means he is contemplating something. You can see the gears turning inside his head. Weighing the pros and cons of giving in to your request.

“Do you purposely live life with your eyes closed, princess?" He asks instead. His hand, so suddenly, is touching your cheek. Gently, his fingertips trace the sharp curve of your cheekbone. His touch is freezing, as cold as a winter wind. "Or do you simply choose to ignore what is directly in front of you?"

“Stop with the riddles," you breathe, though there is no conviction behind it. "Just...tell me."

For the first time since you’ve met him, he appears uncertain. It is a look that doesn't suit him. He stands before you, lips pursed tightly together and his brow creased with lines of worry. For once, he actually looks as if he were searching for the correct words.

You hold your breath, waiting.

“He has not betrayed you if that is what you are concerned about," he finally answers, his tone careful. Treading on thin ice. "But he does have secrets. As do you, need I remind you?"

Your pulse races beneath your skin, thudding so loudly you're positive he can hear it too. You want to ask him what he means, want to ask him how he knows, but your tongue is thick in your mouth and you are suddenly too afraid of the answer.

The pads of his fingers trail down your jaw. You tremble beneath the light touch, eyes closing briefly.

"But I am not here to speak of my brother,” he continues, voice soft as silk. His touch leaves your face, only to glide along the side of your neck, and you find yourself leaning into the coolness of his caress. "Closed doors, remember?”

You nod, dumbly, because it is all you can do.

“I want you to look at me."

You obey, much to your own surprise.

He's closer somehow. The heat radiating off his body is tangible, warming you to your very core. It feels nice in contrast to the chill of his skin.

“Tell me, what was our previous lesson?” His thumb sweeps across your lower lip, pressing into the plump flesh. "Be a good girl and remind me."

Oh.

You swallow the lump that is steadily forming in your throat. “Pleasure.”

“Pleasure,” he repeats, a small, approving smile curling at his mouth. "And did you enjoy it?"

It feels like a trick.

A trap, waiting for you to fall right into the jaws of it.

You can't trust him.

You shouldn't trust him.

Yet still the word slips from your lips.

"Yes."

There is no hiding the flash of desire that flits across his face. His pupils widen, nearly taking up the entirety of his iris.

“And?” He coaxes.

It takes you a moment to realize what he's waiting for.

“Letting go of shame,” you whisper.

“Then why are you holding onto it now?" He murmurs. "Why are you hesitating?"

“I-"

"It is simple. Do not overthink it." He leans down, his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. His teeth graze the pointed tip, and your heart jumps inside your chest. "All you were required to do last night was take, but now...now you will learn to give.”

The pressure of his hand presses down onto your shoulder, gentle but demanding. One moment you were standing on shaky knees, and the next you were kneeling.

It is belittling. Humiliating. But the way in which he looks at you, his mouth set and his jaw tense, is almost empowering. Almost.

“Lesson number two,” he bends down until the two of you are at eye level, “is service."

He watches you, no doubt scrutinizing every expression that passes across your face. You dare not look away, despite the anxious churning in the pit of your stomach.

He presses the tip of his middle finger against your mouth, sliding it past your parted lips and onto the slick surface of your tongue.

"Suck." He orders.

You nearly choke at the sheer vulgarity of it. Surely that could not feel pleasurable, could it? All the times you'd overheard the crude stories from drunk men in the taverns, how in-detailed they'd often been with their lewd descriptions of their sexual conquests, you'd never heard anything like this.

Usually it was a...well...mouth on a person's—on their...

The thought alone makes your face burn hotter than fire. Loki seems to catch on to where your mind had wandered, for he is barely containing the smug grin stretching his lips.

“Do not tell me you know not how to press your lips together and suction.” His tone is every bit condescending and patronizing. A quiet rumble of laughter reverberates throughout his chest as his eyes narrow the slightest bit. “If that is is truly the case, then I have much more work ahead of me than I'd originally intended.”

If only looks could kill, Loki would be dying a most horrible death.

You latch onto his digit, hollow cheeks forming around the thin width. You think, just for a brief moment, of biting down and tearing it right from the knuckle. That would wipe that nauseating smirk right off his face. It would put him in his place. It would—

Without warning, he pushes his index finger into your mouth as well, the digits bumping against your teeth. Deeper and deeper they go, until the pads touch the velvety flesh of your throat.

Your lashes flutter wildly, and against your volition they build wet and thick with the threat of tears. What you can see through your blurred vision of Loki is his slack expression, his brow knitted and his eyes rounded with something akin to fascination. Or maybe even wonder.

“No gag reflex," he murmurs, seemingly to himself. "Now, isn't that a pleasant surprise?"

He speaks as if you are some foreign thing to be studied. Locked away within a glass encasement like a curated artifact. A prized possession.

Innocent as you may be, you were certainly no ignorant little girl. You knew exactly what that reaction meant to him. Exactly what he had insinuated in his low, sultry tone. But suddenly your knowledge seems severely lacking. Childish, compared to his experience.

Shame. It was the first logical emotion you felt, and the only one that was apparently forbidden. He didn't want you to have shame, just as he did not want you to overthink. So for now, you had nothing else left but to accept, to let go. Even if you were not so sure of the rules of this little game he was playing.

If growing up in Asgard as an elven outcast had taught you anything, it was to fake confidence, even when you lacked it. To have pride, regardless.

So you do exactly that.

You roll your tongue against the intruding fingers, holding them captive within your warm, wet mouth.

Were you expected to actually suckle? Or did the visual alone satiate him? Perhaps the sight of you, face flushed and on your knees, was satisfactory enough.

Before you could dwell any further, he abruptly slid his wet, glistening fingers from the cage of your mouth. Saliva coats the appendages and links a thin line to your lips until the tension snaps and sloppily drops down your chin.

You quickly wipe the back of your hand over your mouth, glancing up at him under heavy lids. He's watching you with an intensity that makes you clench your thighs together and rub them subtly, your mind taking you back to the way he had touched you the night before.

Slow, gentle, precise.

"Tell me," you breathe, the tip of your tongue darting out to trace the plumpness of your bottom lip. You barely acknowledge the way his gaze follows the motion. "What would you have me do next?"

His expression twists just the slightest, nostrils flaring and jaw taut. As if whatever it was that had formed in his mind, whatever he had wanted to say next, had died before even having the chance to be spoken aloud.

It seems, in the briefest of seconds, an entire debate brews behind his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards before he decides upon, simply, "I will have you will pay me the same courtesy I did for you."

By that, of course, he was speaking of last night.

The incessant beating of your heart thrums throughout your entire body like a thousand small drums. Could you? Could you actually open your mouth and taste him like he had done with you?

To feel him jerk and twitch and come apart on your tongue and lips. What would the consistency be like, the taste of it?

You were about to learn.

He takes your hand and places it over his crotch, curving your palm over the hardening ridge straining against the thick material of his leathers. You gulp, your fingers curling involuntarily over the shape.

He's watching so intently, and a shiver goes up the expanse of your spine.

You look at him for what feels like an eternity. Into those green eyes, murky with desire and flecked with shards of gold. It is easy to lose yourself in those hues. It is easy to forget why you shouldn't want to seek him out.

Thor is in the next room. Unaware and trustingly asleep, blissfully ignorant of the treacherous deed his fiancée and brother were currently committing against him.

'You will not look at me as Thor’s brother, nor yourself as his betrothed. When those doors close, those titles have no significance or power. Only pleasure.'

Loki’s past words echo like a prayer inside the corridors of your mind. And god help you, the guilt that threatened to swallow you whole slowly dissipated.

You were doing this for Thor, after all. It meant nothing. It was merely practice—an exchange of teachings.

That was it.

It didn't matter.

It… it just didn't.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, interrupting the buzz inside your head. There is nothing mocking or cocky in the question—the inquiry is genuine.

Maybe, if your fingers hadn't been on his rapidly hardening length, if his knuckles hadn't been sweeping your neck ever-so-tenderly, you would've said no. But those circumstances weren't currently present, so you take a steadying breath and reply,

"Yes."

His lips quirk a little.

"Yes, what?" He teases, sliding his thumb along the hollow of your throat.

"I—yes," you repeat, pausing. "I am...okay with this. More than okay. I-"

I want this, you're about to say. Because in truth, you do. A little too much. But the admission burns itself before it has a chance to seep free from your lungs. Instead, you change it into "I want you to teach me."

There is a tick to his jaw as he registers your response, like it took him all of his willpower to not growl the filthiest obscenities right into your face.

He tilts his head, almost thoughtfully. "Such a brave little thing," he drawls. "Are you nervous?"

"Not of you," you say quickly. "It's...it's just new. Unfamiliar."

He brushes away the strands of hair sticking to your cheek, the ghost of his finger lingering on your cheekbone. "Trust your instincts." He hums, "Your body will know what to do."

You experimentally squeeze and are awarded a sharp inhale for your efforts. Encouraged, you continue with a slow and steady friction, delighting in the way the bulge grows larger and stiffer underneath your curious hand. Up and down, up and down, rubbing the hardening length through his ridiculously tight-fitting pants.

Your eyes and mind battle for dominance over where to stare. On the shape of him, straining so deliciously against your caress, or at his reactions.

A soft squeeze, then a firmer press of the palm. You watch his face the entire time, hoping to read something—anything—to indicate your actions are indeed pleasing him.

What feels nice? What doesn’t?

You were playing, and he was letting you explore freely. No rush to your exploration, no expectations.

Within minutes, you have come to learn that his breathing grows the fastest when you follow the natural curve of his length and softly drag your thumb at the very tip. He is the most sensitive there, you determine.

The first time it twitches, you glance at him to make sure you hadn’t accidentally hurt him. The second time it happens, his mouth parts on a skillfully contained sound. You realize, by the third instance, that it is because he likes it.

You feel strangely proud of that.

Feeling brave, you lean in to press a small kiss onto the mound, tentatively flicking your eyes upwards to look for the prince's approval. He gives it to you in the form of an encouraging nod, the veins in his neck tight.

You don’t miss the small sigh that follows as soon as your mouth reconnects with his fabric-clad member.

His fingertips slide into your hair, knotting themselves through the strands. Not controlling or forceful, merely there—anchoring and guiding.

“Norns help me," you hear him mutter under his breath, hissing sharply through clenched teeth. It was so quiet, barely audible and rasped. You think, perhaps, you weren’t meant to hear it.

“Take off the belt," he orders softly, regaining himself. There is no tremor or break in his voice—just control. Like he isn't unraveling bit by bit, a loose string ready to fall apart. “Slowly.”

He draws his hips away enough to accommodate the pull of his belt, the thick piece of leather clanking obnoxiously as you poorly attempt to work it free.

What should have been a two-second task, no longer than five, you struggle with for the duration of an excruciating eternity.

He could have helped you with the buckle, easily disassembled it with a snap of his fingers—but no, it is apparent Loki enjoys watching your awkward squirming as your nails scrape against the bronze piece.

“Do you need a hint?" He remarks dryly, no longer attempting to hold his amusement in. "The buckle goes through—"

“Don’t be condescending," you hiss.

He merely chuckles.

Finally—thank the gods, finally—he places his hands atop yours, stilling your failed attempts.

“Luckily for you, and perhaps all of Asgard, ceremonial gowns are required to be worn before the official union," he quips, effortlessly tugging the stubborn strap through. "Else I fear the entire realm and its guests would be subjected to a rather painfully boring and long night come tomorrow."

“So if undoing a belt isn’t a skill necessary for me to learn, then pray tell, why did you have me attempt it?" You snap, more venomously than needed.

Your comment doesn't earn any of his ire. Quite the opposite, as it merely serves to widen his grin.

Then he is leaning down, nose to nose. His face so dangerously close to yours. For a moment all you can do is hold your breath as his mouth, a hair's width away, ghosts over the plush swell of your lips. You wonder if he's going to actually kiss you. For a single, mad second, you want him to.

He does not.

“Because seeing you get ruffled is quickly becoming one of my favorite pastimes," he whispers.

You feel something cool and heavy slide around your neck. Smooth. Solid. Tight but not suffocating. It only takes a second for you to realize he was fastening the length of his belt around your throat, like a noose ready for hanging.

He slips a finger under the leather and gives a small tug, testing the makeshift restraint before straightening his back once more. All while holding the remaining portion of the belt tightly bound between his closed fist.

“And," he continues, a sharp jerk of his hand causing you to fall forward on your hands and knees, “I did warn you at the very beginning of our little arrangement, didn't I?”

He slowly begins to walk backwards, each step pulling you in tow until eventually he reaches the edge of the bed and sits with legs splayed wide and comfortable.

“I will teach you all you need to know, but the plan had always been to ruin you. To burn myself so intensely into your mind that no one—no matter the touch or the effort put towards pleasure—could possibly ever compare to that which you will receive from me."

You find yourself kneeling in front of the apex of his thighs, face level to his groin. You could only guess you had a ridiculous expression of bewilderment plastered to your visage, mouth parted on silent words.

He had warned you.

What a fool you were for ever doubting his promises.

“What then? Do you intend to—to turn me into a proper whore?" you manage to utter. "To crave you? Crave this?"

You had intended for it to seem more bitter than it sounded, more indignation and not desperate curiosity.

But he sees straight past the walls. Past your intentions and into your soul. The same soul that that seer had proclaimed to be torn in half—half dark and half light—which, right now, was rapidly bleeding into the shadows.

Dark and dank and ravenous.

“Well… it would be a shame to only accomplish one out of two goals,” he grins lazily, completely shameless.

You have nothing more to offer to that remark.

The belt wrapped around your throat is only pulled tighter as he gently ushers you closer to his crotch. So close that the intoxicating smell of musk, leather, and the slight remnants of winter cling to your nostrils like perfume.

With a wave of his hand, he magically vanishes the fabrics and the trappings that clung to his skin, exposing himself entirely to your wide-eyed gaze.

And exposed he is, in his entirety.

Your previous view of him in the baths had been darkened and foggy—too consumed with other things to properly appraise his nakedness. Yet now, oh, how much better everything looks with clarity.

It is so terribly, painfully obscene.

He is lean muscle, all compacted tightly within alabaster skin. Soft, silken flesh covering nothing but firm and well-crafted contours. Scars speckle the surface in different lengths and varying depths, giving testament to the long and often hard years he'd spent training for combat.

Before you can even realize what you're doing, you reach a hand forward and gently trace the faint white marks.

And him?

He lets you. He lets you run the flat of your fingers across every groove and indentation. Lower and lower until eventually his needy cock bumps against the heel of your palm.

Now you had known, due to your many studies of anatomy and the way the human body was formed, what a man's manhood generally looked like. But theory and practice were vastly different experiences, and never have you truly believed that anyone could actually be so well gifted.

Now that you are really paying attention, you take notice of the length of it. Elegantly long and subtly curved, flushed rosy pink at the tip. And the thickness, easily as wide as three of your fingers joined together, was definitely enough to make your mouth feel achingly full just by looking at it.

He really was made for sin.

“It would benefit you well to breathe," he prompts with a twist of his lips.

Only then do you remember to blink, to suck in much-needed oxygen.

He wraps one large hand around the base, lazily tugging up and down its length. You couldn't believe the way your insides clenched at the sight. Couldn't believe the way he was casually—so brazenly—pleasuring himself right before your eyes.

No shame. That's what you see when you glance up at his face. No shame and no guilt whatsoever.

You feel a soft tug at the belt, the sudden force lurching you forward until your hands are braced upon each of his knees to balance yourself and your face is once more leveled to his lap.

“Focus,” he commands, the pad of his thumb smearing the slippery essence that has leaked from the tiny slit. “Not on my face, not on your thoughts. Look nowhere but at my cock. At what I am doing to it."

And like the pathetic, starved thing that you are, you obey.

You stare in unbroken fascination at the way he tugs his length with controlled, measured strokes. Slow and torturously patient. Like this was nothing to him. Just another day of fulfilling his mundane duties and not a secretive rendezvous that could be overheard at any moment if anyone cared to listen hard enough.

Then, his eyes hood, the rhythmic stroking stops, and he looks down at you through a curtain of dark lashes.

“Do as I've shown.” His cold palm engulfs your smaller one, forcing your fingers around his velvety heat and into his preferred rhythm.

Using your hand as his own personal sex toy.

It is a filthy image. Watching the head of his member disappear inside your fist, then slip out again when the stroke ends. Faster. Harder. All done in perfect sync to the dictation of Loki's hand.

“That's it, so good," he murmurs low, the slightest hitch to his voice.

You weren’t sure when you began doing it yourself, but your hand steadily continues on even after Loki removes himself altogether. Your movements were nowhere near as skillful or controlled as his had been, but they had his nostrils flared and jaw clenching so tightly you were sure the bone could shatter at any moment.

“Do not be afraid to be a little more firm," he grunts, “I will not break, I promise you. You will not hurt me."

So you squeeze, tightening your grip around him. You are rewarded with a low hiss and the jerk of his hips.

The motion is repeated again and again, and each time it elicits the same response. It is addicting. The sound, the feeling. Knowing you could make the arrogant prince writhe and twitch and curse.

You wonder what would happen if you were to lick him. To wrap your mouth around him and suck. What would his reaction be?

He said to trust your body. To trust its instincts.

Without further thought, your head dips low and the tip of your tongue flicks out, barely ghosting over the leaking head.

Loki jolts, hissing loudly through his teeth.

You quickly flinch backwards, worried that perhaps you'd actually hurt him somehow. But his hand is suddenly there, cupping the back of your skull, urging you back.

"Norns, no," he growls, the muscles in his neck bulging. "Do not stop."

There is an animalistic quality to his voice, a raw and primal edge that sets your body ablaze.

He guides you forward until the smooth flesh of his cock is sliding past your lips, bumping against your teeth and touching the roof of your mouth.

He tastes...

You have no words for the taste.

You were not prepared for it to be so hot, so smooth, and so soft. You were not prepared for the way your core clenches and your stomach churns at the weight of him on your tongue.

You certainly were not prepared for the toe of his boot to slither up your dress and press itself firmly against the wetness that has pooled in your underwear.

You yelp around him, the sound muffled by the sheer girth stretching your jaw.

The prince groans, the hand buried in your hair clenching tightly and holding you captive to his lap.

You squirm, grinding the wet ache of your cunt down onto his shoe. Pure instinct. You were moving entirely on autopilot. There was no rational thought.

“Such a pretty thing." The heel of his boot rotates, grinding harder against the pulsating bundle of nerves. "My pretty little whore."

My.

The word bounces around inside the confines of your skull.

My whore.

His.

His whore.

The sound you make is a pathetic one. Something between a whimper and a moan—something that was never meant to be heard by Loki, because in the end you were not his.

In the end you were to marry his brother.

His brother, who had secrets of his own, who was not above hiding things.

Who was currently asleep, ignorant to the treachery occurring behind the closed door of the bedroom he'd booked.

“Tell me," he hisses, "do you enjoy this? Enjoy having my cock in your mouth?"

A whimper slips free as his hips give a short thrust, burying himself deeper into the welcoming home of your mouth.

You can't breathe. You can't speak. Yet still you attempt a nod.

He grunts, pulling back out to allow you a gulp of air before sliding back in. This time he nestles himself so far down your spasming throat that his balls graze the underside of your chin.

You are so full.

A trickle of saliva slides past the corner of your lips as you cough and sputter.

“Relax," he murmurs, soothingly massaging the base of your skull. "Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose… yes. Yes, just like that."

And then he is guiding your head up and down, slow and deep.

Wet, squelching sounds fill the air, and you are thankful that the tavern was still at its loudest and noisiest hours.

“I wish you could see how delicious you look right now." He pulls out for a brief second, giving your mouth a moment to collect the dribbling spit that had built up, before slipping back in. “Asgard’s little elven sweetheart with a cock stuffed between her pretty pink lips. Oh, what a sight you make."

You respond by grinding harder onto the boot pressed to your clothed core.

The pleasure is building.

Your body feels like it is on fire. You were burning alive.

Was it even possible to… to finish… like this?

The way your body was reacting—it was a possibility.

“So- so divine," Loki pants, his words beginning to slur. "To have you at my feet yet reduce me to the one worshipping. My, the gods must have a twisted sense of humor."

His breath catches.

He was close, you could tell. You could feel it in the way his muscles tense and the vein in his neck throbs. The way he was losing control, his movements growing choppy and desperate.

"You have no idea the amount of restraint it takes to not simply fuck your pretty little mouth so devastatingly that you can't speak for a week. The thought alone… oh, it would be the most pleasurable form of punishment I could ever think of giving you."

Another whimper. Another grind of the heel.

You were right on the edge.

“If only you knew how often I've thought of this. Dreamt of it," he confesses with a mirthless chuckle, his voice strained. "Every time you've managed to outsmart me with your sharp little tongue. Every time you've challenged me in front of Thor or those spineless, witless buffoons he calls friends. How many times have I had to hold myself back from dragging you to my bedchamber and fucking every single drop of defiance right out of your system?”

The information washes over you like a bucket of ice water.

All the times he had stared at you like he was imagining just how he would break you down. Like he was already forming a plan on how to destroy you. You’d always assumed it was merely distaste that made him glare so heatedly.

Had it all been this?

Desire? Lust?

Had your mouth not been full, you would've told him how you'd thought the same. How you had imagined it more times than you would ever care to admit.

But that would make you just as guilty as him. Just as bad.

This was supposed to be as simple as a teaching lesson. Nothing more. It did not require dirty words or lustful admittances.

And yet, despite your internal protests, you continue to grind yourself shamelessly onto the leather of his boot and grow wetter with every sinful word.

“Yet at the same time,” he groans, his tone taking on an almost somber note. "At the same time, that fire is what draws me to you. I fear if I were to ever put it out, I'd have nothing left but ash in my hands. And what a shame that would be, since you're such a marvel to observe when you're burning."

That was it.

That was what threw you over the edge. What sent you spiraling over the cliff and into pure oblivion. Your orgasm burned white hot and spilled through your veins like a fever, robbing you of the very air within your lungs.

Even the prince shudders, every muscle in his lean physique taut and trembling as he suddenly attempts to wrench himself free.

But you don't allow him the time to do so.

Before your very mind could even wrap around the idea of what you were doing, you were suddenly pressing down on his thighs, rooting him to the spot. All it takes is a single look up at him through your lashes and a purposeful hum. Just a simple vibration of your throat. And it is over.

The groan that leaves him is entirely strained and guttural. His neck cranes backward, exposing the full column of his adam's apple. Just once he gives a strong buck of his hips, and something bitter and warm and salty hits your taste buds.

Saliva, seed, and a mixture of the two dribble down your throat, clinging to your parched tongue in thick droplets. Even as your own vision blurs and your thoughts haze, you work your mouth around the head of his cock, swallowing every hot gush of his release.

Drinking it in until he's wrung completely dry, sated and satiated.

It was… good. Addicting. Instinctively, you find yourself licking the tip clean, like a greedy animal seeking a scrap of food. The action pulls a hiss from his lips, and his whole body jerks as if you've electrocuted him with some kind of invisible force.

How interesting.

You do it again. Again and again, simply because you can.

“Okay,” he rasps, tugging sharply at the belt. This time you did not resist, releasing him from the cage of your lips. "Okay. En- Enough. That is quite enough, temptress."

Slowly, the fog evaporates from your senses, and with it the restraint around your throat. You both sit there for a long while after. Fractured breaths filling the air.

The heat that had once seared your skin had all but burned away, and an icy chill danced along your spine. It is a dangerous chill that sinks in so deep it almost chokes the life right out of you.

So unbearably quiet.

So unnervingly still.

With a single snap of his fingers, Loki returns his proper attire. However, he does not look quite like a presentable prince. Not with the disheveled mess of his hair and the paleness of his sweaty face.

Carefully, he reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you're forced to look him directly in the eyes.

You aren't sure what exactly it was that he saw in your expression. Whether he was trying to decipher whatever was going through your head or simply admire how wrecked you most likely looked. Whatever he was searching for, he didn't seem to find it.

Loki lifts his thumb to your lips, slowly swiping away the spittle that clings to the corner of your mouth.

So tender, so... gentle.

Dangerous. That's what this feeling was. Too dangerous and too tempting.

And gods, why did everything he do have to be so confusing?

Stop looking at me, you scream silently. Stop making me feel so insanely lost.

Stop not being Thor.

Loki leans forward, bridging the gap between the two of you. But not on your mouth. On your forehead, where his lips lingered briefly. When he speaks, his words are barely audible. As if they were meant only for the walls and not your ears.

"What a tangled web we have weaved."

Then, just as quickly as it happened, he was on his feet and swiftly making for the door without ever turning to glance back.

You want to call out to him. Part your lips and beg him to look at you. But he doesn't.

All he leaves you with is the aftermath.

All he leaves is silence and even more confusion.

[jadekillian]

This has me kicking my feet and giggling 🤭 Hopefully part three has you doing the same ;)

On a more serious note, messages like this are so motivating!! I appreciate your support ml <3

let’s talk about how beautiful @jadekillian writing is, best thing i’ve ever read. PART 3 COMING YAYYYY

(when it comes out i hope you all know i will be insufferable)

[jadekillian]

Update!!

Yall, I am alive—as is my short series. Part 3 of ‘Treacherous Lessons In Lust and Desire’ will be released sometime this week. Unfortunately, I upload at the pace of a snail. Thank you for baring with me.

Worry not, Loki will reward you greatly for your patience in the next lesson ;)

[jadekillian]

Let’s just say that it will be a lot of hands on learning..

.. I’ll let myself out 🚪🚶‍♀️

Part 2/4

Part 1 here

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗔 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗢𝗱𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻—𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝘀𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱—𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 (𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆), 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗴𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿, 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗗𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸, 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗸𝗲𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗲𝗹𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗲𝘄?, 𝗮 𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 (𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱), 𝗮 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗴𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱, 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗵, 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁.

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝟯+(?) 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸 (𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘆), 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝟴.𝟮𝗸

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵. 𝗘𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆, 𝘀𝗹𝗼𝗼𝘁𝘀. (𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆, 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄!)

There has not been a single moment of peace in the last 12 hours.

Since fleeing Loki’s room, you had barely slept a wink. Once you did succumb to slumber, it was not without horrid dreams of jade-colored eyes, heated breath, and whispered promises that set your blood aflame with equal parts dread and uncharacteristic longing.

Even now, while you sit stiffly at the breakfast table with both royal brothers present, you have the creeping notion that you may never know peace again.

You grip your fork tightly and chew methodically, aware of the conversation being made but not truly paying attention.

The Allfather and Thor speak at length about the day's agenda: a trip to the armory, a council meeting, and something about an appearance in the training yard before attending the celebration later in the evening. Frigga sips her tea and smiles, listening patiently and interjecting on occasion. Your mother and father do the same.

It all seemed very mundane, and yet, the air around you is charged.

It would only take a small glance up from beneath your lashes to spot the source of your anxiety.

Loki.

He sits across from you, posture ramrod straight and lips pursed. The morning sunlight streams through the arched windows and catches on his raven locks, turning them to shimmering ebony.

He looks regal, almost bored. And if you hadn't witnessed the look in his eyes last night, seen the way he watched you in a manner not unlike a hungry wolf offering his prey a chance to run, you might have believed his nonchalance.

But you did see that look. And you did run. And now...

Well, now you simply don't know what to make of things.

“My lady, you have barely touched your food. Are you unwell this morning?"

Your head snaps up as Thor’s booming voice reaches you from your right, and you meet his concerned blue gaze. You offer a weak smile and a shake of your head. "I'm fine. I think perhaps the ale is still weighing on me."

It wasn’t entirely untrue. Your stomach does feel a bit off this morning, and your head is a tad foggy, but the real cause of your lack of appetite is currently smirking down at his plate, the evil little bastard no doubt taking great pleasure in the fact that he has thoroughly ruined your sleep, appetite, and sanity.

Thor laughs, the sound echoing around the dining area. "Yes, well, the ale was indeed potent."

The blond prince reaches out and gently places a large, warm hand over yours. He gives it a quick squeeze, a gesture meant to comfort, and offers a dazzling smile.

"Perhaps tonight we should keep to the mead. Or try the new wine I heard is in port from Vanaheim. Something lighter. What do you say?"

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you nod, though it falters the instant a familiar, velvety voice enters the fray.

"Brother, do you truly believe it wise to allow her another evening of indulgence? After last night's spectacle of staggering into my room at such an hour, I fear any more merriment might be a mistake."

Your heart seizes at Loki's words, and your cheeks flame with a blush that rivals the hue of your dress.

What in the name of hel was he doing? Surely he wouldn’t actually go through with his threat—he couldn’t hate you that much, could he?

You risk a glance at Thor and find that his relaxed expression has faltered. There was a deep furrow in his brow and a hint of confusion dancing behind his eyes.

"Your room?" he asks, tone laced with bewilderment.

Your shoulders tense as Loki turns his sharp gaze onto you, a devious grin gracing his thin lips. He tilts his head and studies your face with the air of a cat observing a particularly amusing mouse, and you are certain that any minute now, he is going to open his mouth and ruin you forever.

Odin would banish you and your family from Asgard, and Thor, the man you have spent most of your life pining for, will never so much as look at you again. Alfheim would take you back in an instant, but you would be ruined. Without an alliance, your people would surely suffer, and the shame would follow you until the end of your days.

Your image… Your dignity… Everything would be ripped away by one cleverly placed lie.

You open your mouth, prepared to deny everything and pray to the Norns that Thor will not believe the younger prince. “I can ex—”

"Yes," Loki answers, cutting you off before you can utter another word. "It was amusing. She came barging into my chambers, drunk as a Midgardian sailor, and asked me to brew up a potion to rid her of the headache she predicted would plague her come morning.”

You blink once. Twice.

That was not the lie you had expected. You are so full of relief that it takes a monumental effort not to visibly relax in your seat.

Instead, you swallow the lump forming in your throat and offer a strained smile.

"Yes, well," you begin, casting a quick glance toward the Allfather, "I was in desperate need of a remedy, lest I be unable to dance and properly celebrate my engagement with our guests come tonight."

Thor seems pleased with your response, and Odin appears satisfied, but the queen's eyes have narrowed slightly, and you suddenly feel very exposed.

"Ah, and was he able to assist you, my dear?" She asks, her gaze flickering between you and her youngest son.

"I—well—"

"Able to assist her? Yes.” Loki interjects once more. You can’t help the feeling that his choice of words was deliberate, a subtle double entendre meant only for you. “But she fled my room before I could give her the draught. Perhaps she decided that accepting my help was too much to bear.”

His words are innocent enough, but the way he leans back in his seat and analyzes your reaction is anything but. It feels like an accusation and a silent challenge.

Thor laughs a hearty laugh, pulling you both from your wordless battle of wills. “A wise decision on her part, I would say. Knowing Loki, I would wager there was nothing in that bottle but a trickster's brew, and you would wake to find yourself in an even worse state than when you entered."

Loki offers his brother a tight smile but says nothing. Instead, he lifts his goblet and takes a long drink, the muscles of his throat working as he swallows. Obviously, he had not appreciated the jest.

Thor continues, seemingly oblivious. "It is no matter, though. I am sure the healers will have something for your headache, my lady."

"Thank you," you manage to reply, silently hoping your voice did not betray the tension tightening in your throat. "I will be sure to stop by after breakfast."

The Allfather and Thor turn back to their previous discussion, but Frigga's attention remains on Loki. It was only for a moment, but you saw it: the subtle tightening of her mouth, the worried crinkle around her eyes. It was clear the queen sensed something was amiss with her mischievous son, though she may not know what.

You could only hope she never would.

***

Three hours and a healing draught later, your head is considerably clearer than it had been before. Not mentally, for even with your brain free from the lingering effects of one too many drinks, it remains cluttered with the thoughts and memories of last night. And now, thanks to the most obnoxious god in Asgard, this morning had gone on to be just as eventful.

But that was to be expected.

Really, when was the last time you had encountered Loki without it taking an unwanted turn?

With an irritated sigh, you begin to strip off your dress, the luxurious fabric falling to your feet in a soft puddle of velvet. Next are your undergarments, the delicate silk fluttering to the floor much in the same manner.

Steam curls through the air, warm against your naked skin as you step toward the deep, spaciously round tub filled with aromatic oils, fluffy bubbles, and blessedly hot water.

You lower yourself into the marble-stained hole and bite back a satisfied moan as the heat creeps into your weary bones. It feels glorious, like Valhalla on your flesh, and you lean your head against the rim, giving in to the wonderful feeling and closing your eyes.

The royal bath chamber is a lavish place—spacious and opulently furnished, adorned in muted golds and rich ivory, with thick tapestries hanging against the walls and sconces bearing silken candles that emit a warm, inviting glow. It was one of your favorite places in the entire palace, second perhaps only to the grand library.

“Should I wash your hair or soap your back, Princess?”

Your assigned handmaiden, a lovely Asgardian woman named Grima, smiles from her spot near the door, a white robe and a pair of soft, matching slippers clutched in her arms.

“No, that won't be necessary. I can finish up on my own. Just make sure to alert the seamstress that I will be by at midday to collect my dress for tonight.”

You refrain from revealing any hints of dread in your voice. You could name a hundred more things you'd rather spend an afternoon doing than playing the part of a perfect trophy princess and enduring countless dull, tedious conversations regarding Thor’s sexual prowess.

Like, say, stabbing yourself with the sharpest sword the greatest blacksmith had ever forged.

"Very well." Grima nods. "Shall I send for a guard to stand watch outside the entrance in the meantime?"

You simply wave a dismissive hand. "No need. I will not be too long."

The woman sets your garments aside, bids you a curt goodbye, and quietly slips out the door. It clicks shut with a dull thud, and then you are alone.

No family. No advisors. No duties. No insufferable princes hellbent on dragging you through the seven rings of hel.

Just a cozy bath, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, and silence. But then again, nothing so wonderful ever really lasts long.

Not even a few minutes pass before the creaking door signals the intrusion upon your peace and quiet. Considering everyone else was already in attendance at today's proceedings, you have only one guess as to who would enter.

“Grima, I thought I said I was fi—”

“You know, you might find these steam rooms provide better isolation if you learned to lock the door.”

All vestiges of serenity you had found melt into a black hole along with your stomach. A dreadful chill creeps across your flesh in spite of the surrounding heat, and your temples begin to throb all over again.

“And you might find a little common courtesy to knock not just advisable, but painfully necessary,” you seethe, subconsciously sinking further beneath the frothy water.

Loki ignores your barely veiled hostility and closes the heavy wooden door behind him, giving the brass lock a firm twist. The low snick it makes gives you little comfort.

In fact, every little detail about the situation—his careless bravado, the way he swiftly approaches the tub, the smell of leather and pine that hangs thick in the air around him—prompts an urge to flee that is almost overwhelming.

“I am a prince, and last I recall, the baths are not off limits to royalty."

The words are mocking, taunting. A dare, as if the snake was silently begging you to try and order a crowned prince from the baths when he knows very well you have no right. You were not officially a princess of Asgard yet, after all. Your status only rose in par with his in 3 days time—once your union with Thor took place.

And Loki is damn well aware of that, the vile creature.

“Seriously, Loki. Have you not done enough damage this morning?" Your jaw tightens, your hand gripping the edge of the tub hard enough for your knuckles to turn white. "Honestly, stooping so low as to threaten me was petty, even for you. Bravo. Now what do you want, the gloat?”

You notice his eyes soften a tad at your accusations, and there is an inkling of pity beneath the mask of arrogance he sports so well. He almost looks uncomfortable—perhaps even contrite—but the expression quickly disappears. In its place is a haughty roll of his eyes.

“Damage?” He echoes, the word laced with acidity. He scoffs. "What I did this morning was, if anything, salvage my dear brother's precious betrothed from a scandal.”

His footsteps echo dully as he advances, eventually stopping to kneel down at the tub's edge. The distance is uncomfortably close, and his very proximity prickles the hairs at the nape of your neck.

“When you came barreling into my chambers last night, I highly doubt discretion was anywhere near your mind. All it would take is one guard, one passing servant to have witnessed you—drunk and disheveled—stepping out of the wrong prince’s room at an hour far too late for innocuous reasons," he lowers his voice as if sharing a salacious secret, gaze unwavering, "and you would have been ruined."

He was right, infuriatingly so.

The image would have been damning, regardless of how false the accusations might have been.

The princess, drunk, stumbling around the palace after dark and entering the prince's bedchambers—alone and without escort—was a story far too juicy for the gossiping hounds to pass up.

Still, you are too stubborn and far too irritated to concede his point, let alone give him the satisfaction of knowing he is right.

"Yes, thank you, oh great savior, for the noble rescue." You roll your eyes. "And while we're on the subject, what is stopping me from telling Thor about your little proposition? What then?"

A slow smirk curves the edge of his lips.

"If you were going to do that, you would have done so by now."

You swallow, unable to tear your gaze away from his, no matter how much you want to.

"I believe," he whispers, bringing his mouth dangerously close to your ear. "It is because deep down, you are considering my offer.”

You are suddenly aware of every dip and curve of his face, every minute shift and subtle change in his features. The way his tongue darts out and moistens his lower lip and how his eyes flicker down, briefly, before they rise once more and lock with yours.

Most prominently, you are aware of the warmth spreading through your stomach and how sickeningly wrong it is. You push back against the feeling and steel yourself, mustering every ounce of disdain you could manage.

"I am not."

It comes out hoarse and unconvincing.

You try again.

“It would be a betrayal. I love him."

That one you believe.

Loki is quiet for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then, he moves to his feet.

"So you keep saying."

There is something in his expression you cannot read, though it is gone too soon for you to try and decipher.

You watch, bewildered, as his long, elegant fingers deftly begin to undo his shirt buttons.

“What are you doing?!" You hiss, panic setting in as he shrugs nonchalantly, the fabric slipping away to reveal the smooth skin beneath. His boots were already abandoned and forgotten somewhere.

"I'm joining you," he replies matter-of-factly, sure enough making work at his trousers.

"What? No. Absolutely not!" You protest, trying desperately not to notice how perfectly defined his stomach is, or the sharp angles of his hips, or the dark trail of hair that begins just below his navel and descends to-

Oh god.

You look away, but not quick enough.

Loki was, well... gifted, to put it mildly. You have heard tales of his bedroom antics, mostly whispered rumors between maids and giggling men and women at the court, but seeing was another thing entirely.

"Are you insane?" You hiss, forcing yourself not to stare. "Do you have no shame?"

"Shame?" He chuckles, stepping out of his trousers. "None."

You are not sure whether the sudden rush of heat flooding your body is embarrassment or... something else. Either way, you feel as if you are about to die.

“As I said earlier, there is no rule that prohibits royalty from using the baths whenever they see fit. You are not the only one entitled to a little relaxation."

With that, he steps into the tub, water sloshing over the sides as he sinks his lean frame into the depths—so close that your knees brush together, and the hair on his legs tickles your skin.

The tension in the room is suffocating.

You stare blankly at the wall, trying to focus on anything but the naked god seated across from you, or how his presence seems to dominate the room and make it smaller, almost claustrophobic.

"You can relax. I am not going to attack you." He snorts, amused. "Although, it does seem as if your thoughts are doing quite the job on their own."

"How would you know what my thoughts are?" The question escapes you before you have the chance to stop it. You instantly regret it.

“Because, if you were thinking about what was proper, you would have left the second you realized you were not alone." A beat passes, and then, much to your chagrin, Loki begins to shift closer. His long fingers find your knee, the pad of his thumb grazing along the top. “Yet here you sit, unmoving and unflinching. Why is that, I wonder?"

The sensation is electric. Similar to a wire, exposed and frayed, sending jolts of electricity through your veins. Your entire body is alight with a foreign energy—a tingling, throbbing pulse that has no business existing, least of all between your legs.

But exist it does.

And you have never been more ashamed of yourself.

“I will stop if you ask me to." His voice is a mere whisper now. "Say the words, and this ends. I will leave, and we will never speak of this again.”

His touch travels upwards, higher, until it pauses at your inner thigh.

"But,” he leans forward, nose grazing the side of your cheek, “I warn you, this is my final offer. Say no now, and you will have to find your own means to learn—though I highly doubt you wish to humiliate yourself so publicly. The choice is yours."

You cannot move.

Your brain, which had always functioned so reliably and effectively, has gone completely blank.

There is no right decision. One path is immoral and dishonest. The other is shameful and embarrassing.

Remain faithful, or be seen as inadequate by your people and, worst of all, Thor?

Either way, you are bound to be humiliated. The only difference is that the former is public. The latter would be private.

You close your eyes and think of Thor—of his warm smile and sunny laugh. The way he made you feel safe and whole. But accompanying these pleasant images, you remember why you had sought refuge in several bottles and found yourself in this situation to begin with.

The ceremony, the bedding, the people.

Their stares, their whispers, their judgments.

So, despite your conscience screaming at you to do the right thing and reject the tempting offer, you whisper a single, solitary word.

"Okay."

It's a mistake. You know that.

You know it when you feel his hands encircle your waist and drag you through the water to straddle his lap.

You know it when his cock, almost fully erect, presses insistently against your abdomen.

And you know it most certainly, without a shred of doubt, when his lips finally close over yours.

It is like being kissed by winter itself. Cool and harsh and unforgiving. Yet, in spite of the frigidity, a flame still ignites deep within you. A dangerous, treacherous, all-consuming inferno that threatens to burn down everything good in your life and reduce you to ashes.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you mimic the action to the best of your ability, kissing him back.

There is no grace, no technique. Your movements are sloppy and uncoordinated, and your hands awkwardly rest on his shoulders as if unsure where to touch or what to do. You have never felt more like a bumbling virgin than you do now, and that realization alone causes a wave of shame to wash over you.

The fact that the person kissing you was Loki did not help matters in the slightest.

You half expect him to pull back, make some derisive comment about how pathetic you are, or laugh at you for foolishly falling for a cruel trick. But, surprisingly, he does none of those things. Rather, he cups the back of your head and slows the kiss down, allowing his lips to move leisurely against yours.

It is an unexpected gesture, and one that leaves you feeling both stunned and a tad less intimidated. Encouraged even.

You mimic his movement, the way his mouth tilts and the rhythm it keeps. You memorize the subtle pressure he applies and the pattern of the dance. Less necessary information is filed away in the recesses of your brain—the faint taste of mint, the coolness of his breath, and the soft texture of his lips.

After a few moments, he breaks away, leaving your lungs gasping for air and your cheeks flushed. You can still feel the pressure, a reminder of your treachery. Subconsciously, your fingers lift to touch the spot.

His eyes track the motion, and you could swear, for a fleeting second, he looked almost wistful.

The moment does not last long.

His face grows unreadable, and then he is moving you off his lap and into the space beside him.

"Meet me in my chambers an hour after tonight’s celebration has concluded.”

You barely have time to register what had just happened before he is rising out of the bath, the water rushing down his back in rivulets and dripping off the tips of his hair.

It takes a moment for the statement to process in your haze-ridden brain. When it does, your throat is too dry for words, so you simply nod.

He waves a hand, and an emerald robe manifests around his body, completely shielding his nakedness—and granting you a reprieve.

The door creaks open, and you catch the tail end of his sentence.

"And do try not to drink yourself into a stupor again before you arrive."

With that, he is gone. Leaving you just as confused and guilty as before. Perhaps more.

You just had your first kiss.

And holy shit, it was with Loki Odinson.

***

You had intended to tell Thor.

All throughout the evening, all throughout the dancing, all throughout the nightly celebration, you had wanted to confront him. Yet, each time your morals sparked enough to grant you the courage, something would happen.

Someone would ask him for a dance, and he would leave to accommodate his obligatory duties.

Another would congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, and your stomach would twist unpleasantly.

The few moments you did get a private second alone with him to confess, you suddenly lost your nerve. It was like the words were trapped somewhere between your brain and throat, hidden behind a massive wall and denied passage.

And now, with the revelers having retired and the servants dismissed for the evening, you sit on a particular sofa in a particular room for the second time in your entire life, only this time you don’t have the excuse of being drunk or disoriented for being there. You are sober and painfully aware of what is about to happen.

Rich, red wine drizzles from a carafe into a glass, filling it halfway. The sweet aroma of spices and fermented berries fills the air.

Loki stands a few paces away, back turned to you. You are unsure whether he is purposely ignoring you or lost in thought, but either way, the silence is making you increasingly uncomfortable.

You shift on the plush sofa, and the sound of the material crinkling is loud. Far too loud for this quiet room.

His head turns, and the corner of his lip quirks slightly.

"Nervous?"

It's not an accusation.

"No." You lie, hoping he doesn't hear the way your voice shakes.

He turns, wine in hand, and slowly strides toward the sofa, pausing in front of you.

"Here.” He extends the glass, and after a moment of hesitation, you take it.

“I thought you said no alcohol,” you mutter.

His eyes roll heavenward, and you have to refrain from making a scathing comment about how petulant the action makes him look.

“I suggested that you avoid drinking so much, seeing as you are unable to handle your ale. This,” he gestures towards the glass, "is merely a means to calm your nerves."

You glare up at him but do not argue the point. Instead, you bring the rim to your lips and let the sweet liquid coat your tongue.

He watches the action with rapt attention, his gaze following the curve of your throat as you swallow.

You drain the rest unnaturally fast and place the empty glass on the table beside the sofa.

"Well?" You prompt, folding your hands in your lap. "What happens now?"

"What do you think comes first?”

"…sex?”

You wince at your own bluntness, wishing you would have chosen better phrasing.

He raises his brows, amusement evident. "Eager, are we?"

Heat rushes to your face, and you look down.

"No… I just—” don’t know what to say or do, your brain helpfully supplies. Your shoulders slump, and your tone takes a defensive edge. "If you plan on mocking me, then I will leave."

He studies you for a moment, contemplative, then sighs deep from within his chest. "Look at me."

His words are softer than you’ve ever heard them, but you don’t miss the hint of authority behind the demand. When you don’t comply fast enough, cool fingers grasp your chin and lift your gaze upwards. He is closer than you remembered, and you find yourself breathless for the millionth time that night.

“My intention is not to demean you. Quite the opposite, in fact." His thumb swipes along your lower lip. "But if you wish for me to guide you, to explain things in a manner you will understand, it would be in your best interest to drop your guard.”

Sharp eyes study your reaction, gauging your next move. When you don’t shy away or try to pull from his grip, he continues.

“Starting now, when we are in the privacy of this room, you will cease whatever silly rules of propriety, court etiquette, or modesty you might have been raised to believe. You will not look at me as Thor’s brother, nor yourself as his betrothed. When those doors close, those titles have no significance or power. Only pleasure.”

Something odd, and definitely not appropriate, stirred in your belly at the sound of that final word rolling off his tongue.

Pleasure.

"And when the doors open again?"

"When the doors open," his thumb moves once more, an erotic brush to your cheek, "we go back to reality and carry on as if nothing happened. Me, a little more satisfied—and you, a little more experienced.”

"And you can separate the two easily?"

There was a beat, heavy and permeating.

“As easily as you, I imagine.”

This time, you are the one who makes the first move.

Your arms wind themselves behind his neck, and you pull his mouth down until your lips are joined. He complies without an ounce of resistance, though the surprise is tangible. It is reminiscent of the kiss in the baths, except this time, you are the one who dictates its pace. Slow, methodical. Each part is explored, and each movement is dissected. Before long, you have memorized the curve of his lips and the manner in which they react to different pressure.

It is sloppy at first, a learning experience. But the longer the kiss is allowed to continue, the more you find yourself falling into a routine.

The tension in your body, however, remains. Your shoulders are stiff, and the position is awkward at best. Eventually, he must pick up on this, because his next move is bold.

A soft press on your shoulder guides you backward until your spine sinks into the cushions below with his solid frame hovering above you—one leg bent between your parted thighs and the other supporting his weight on the floor.

Only then, when he releases your mouth with a wet smack, do you realize you've been holding your breath.

You exhale through parted lips and stare, wide-eyed, up at him. He is practically shining above you, the moonlight pouring through the windows and bathing him in a near-supernatural aura. It drapes him in a sense of untouchable regality, enhancing the planes and angles of his cheekbones, his nose, and his jaw, until he looks more like a statue carved from marble.

You’ve never noticed the sharp curve of his ear or the faint scar resting above the left of his brow—so subtle that a quick glance would make it nearly invisible. This close now, it seems impossible to have ever missed.

“You are thinking too hard," he murmurs, causing your eyelids to flutter, "And wearing far too many layers. We will have to remedy that."

You open your mouth to protest, only to watch helplessly as a green shimmer whisks your gown away, leaving you in nothing but flesh.

The action leaves you feeling exposed and vulnerable. You try to cover yourself with your hands, but he is quicker. His long fingers circle your wrists and pin them above your head, exposing the swell of your breasts and the pink peaks of your nipples.

You squirm, suddenly embarrassed, but he tightens his grip.

“No undergarments?” A wolfish grin tugs at the corner of his lips. "My, my... I had not pegged you for a temptress. Had you been hoping to make yourself more accessible for me, or do you always strut around the castle so brazenly bare underneath your clothing?”

In all honesty, you did not own a single garment appropriate for the occasion. Virginal white didn't necessarily suit the mood for a secret affair—but there was no way in all the nine realms you would admit as much to Loki. So you pretend his question was rhetorical and remain stoically silent.

He chuckles at this. A rich, warm sound that is entirely too pleasant and smooth to be coming from the God of Mischief himself.

“Well, whether you intended for such a thing to come to fruition, the result is the same—so why shy from it now?"

His free hand glides down the side of your body, allowing you to feel every featherlight touch before it passes over your abdomen and towards your hips.

“Have you ever pleasured yourself before?” His voice is conversational, as if he is speaking about the weather and not asking the most intimate question possible. As if it were a question you were expected to answer. “Guided your hand down this very path, and let those curious fingers wander to where the heat and ache were most prominent... only to stroke yourself into oblivion?"

You almost can’t believe such filthy words could pass between his lips so easily. Involuntarily, you shudder, and something slick and tingly bursts in your stomach like firecrackers.

At least four different responses compete to leave your mouth, but the only thing you manage to voice is a tiny, shameful croak.

"Once or twice..." You wince and mentally kick yourself.

"Oh?" Cool fingers glide lower, lower, lower, until they are just shy of brushing between your thighs. "Do tell.”

"Loki—"

"Humor me."

Suddenly, he dips two fingers between the shockingly drenched seam of your lower lips and spreads you open, exposing your soaked cunt to his scrutiny.

The instinct to clamp your thighs together, to hide away, is overwhelming and intense. And in true Loki fashion, he pins your legs down with his knee, forbidding you from any sort of modesty. Not that it mattered now.

"Like this?" Up and down, up and down. Almost taunting in nature, his middle and pointer fingers glide in excruciatingly slow stripes. They are purposely avoidant, paying no mind to the cluster of nerves that are now screaming for attention.

“No,” you choke.

His tongue clicks in a mocking fashion.

"No?” He feigns confusion before giving three heavy taps directly against your swollen clit. You jolt beneath him, a gasp lodging itself in your throat. In reward—or punishment, depending on one's definition—he cockily repeats the motion again. “Something like this, then?"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“N-not exactly,” you grit.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Ah, a bit more like... this?"

Without warning, the relentless presses morph into slow, skilled circles from his thumb. No longer is the swollen bud neglected but teased to the brink of torture. You can feel every twitch, every careful glide, and it draws a shameless whine from your throat.

You want to hate it. To wriggle free from his grasp and demand he stop whatever this is, but your body is no longer under your control. Blood is steadily roaring in your ears and pulsing fiercely between your legs, and a terrible itch has emerged.

You can do nothing but lift your hips in a hopeless attempt to seek more.

His eyes are alight in a way you’ve never seen before. Dark and full of mirth, swirling with curiosity and a near-sinister aura.

“Oh, yes,” he purrs in appreciation, speeding up his movements, apparently pleased with your vocal response. "This is correct, then?"

All you can do is nod, too overwhelmed to do anything other than swallow the urge to beg.

Then, so abruptly that it leaves your body confused and throbbing, the pressure ceases.

“Show me, then," he prompts, finally releasing your wrists and giving you back control.

"Wh-what?" Your voice trembles, as does your chin.

"Pleasure yourself." The command is far more imposing now, the air filled with demand rather than suggestion. “Since your tongue has ceased to cooperate, I require a means of direction."

You gape at him, looking for any trace of humor, but he seems deadly serious.

“I thought you were to guide me?" You argue, furrowing your brows. "Not the other way around."

He only shrugs, unconcerned with your inner turmoil.

“Your first lesson… letting go of shame." With these words, he eases off the sofa and hovers, watching you expectantly. Continuing, he adds, "If the thought of gratifying yourself while I watch mortifies you, then how do you intend to perform with all of Asgard watching on the night of your consummation?"

You want to curse his logic but have no means of arguing its point.

His large, cool palm cups your own and guides it downward, a soft, encouraging press. You don’t stop him. Not when he helps you position your shaking fingertips over the still aching nerves, nor when he guides you through the first hesitant circle.

"Keep going," his voice is honey, sweet and laced, "Close your eyes if you must, but allow it to take over. There is nothing shameful in satisfying a need, not when it makes your blood run hot and your mind race in anticipation. Don’t fight what feels good; focus on your instinct."

You have never felt more ridiculous or absurd in your entire life. Yet, against your better judgment, you do as instructed.

Eyes shut, breathing shallow, you begin again. Slowly at first, your timid swipes unsure and lacking a certain rhythm.

“Exactly like that,” he encourages, and you hate the fact that his voice sends another gush between your thighs. “Is this how you touch yourself in the comfort and seclusion of your chambers? In the night, perhaps, when you think everyone else has long fallen into rest and dreams. Is this how you relieve your hunger, little minx?"

A sound escapes from deep in your throat—something cross between a pathetic mewl and an irate grunt—because despite how odd and humiliating this ordeal is, it is starting to make you feel undeniably good.

He chuckles low at the sight, clearly taking your response as a sign to keep talking. Whether or not you should feel disgusted with yourself for actually enjoying his filthy whispers was lost in a sea of endorphins, floating alongside your fleeting pride.

“Are you always so drenched, or have I earned a special sort of reaction?" His hands graze the sides of your trembling thighs, spreading them wider for his gaze. “I mean, truly… leaking onto my cushions like an untamed whore. Who would have guessed Alfheim’s pure little princess harbored such depravity?”

The crass nature of his language should make your stomach turn or offend your sense of dignity. It shouldn’t rile you into adding more pressure and speeding up the pace of your fingers—yet, that is exactly what is happening.

“Are you picturing my fingers stroking you to completion?" He continues, merciless and taunting and far too perceptive for your liking. "Or is the fantasy too obscene for your innocent mind to conjure? What wicked thoughts lie behind those naive eyes?”

"Loki." It comes out as an angry hiss, the last string of your resolve threatening to snap.

"What?" His tone is impish, purposely casual. He is enjoying himself greatly. "Simply inquiring."

With a growl, you pry your eyes open to glare at him, hoping your expression accurately relays the breadth of your annoyance.

Apparently, it doesn't.

"Yes, there she is." His smile is broad and arrogant, almost proud, as if this were the point he was trying to make all along. "Emotion. Reaction. So much more honest than when you try to suppress what you are feeling. Of course, we will have to work on those deadly, glaring eyes. Unless you intend to battle your bed partner rather than seduce him."

You have no time to form a retort because his head lowers and captures one of your nipples with the heat of his tongue. It is a completely shocking sensation—unexpected, new, and confusing, but very much not unpleasant. You gasp at the wet lick and squirm against his hold, fingers stuttering in your ministrations.

It does nothing to discourage him. If anything, the reaction incites him further. With a hand squeezing your right breast and mouth devouring your left, his hand rejoins the onslaught between your legs. Only this time, it does not settle for lazy strokes and teasing circles but works its own rhythm atop your fingertips.

“Allow your tongue some freedom. Tell me what feels nice, what isn’t quite right.” His teeth give a soft nip to the tight peak before he switches his attention to its twin, lavishing it just the same. "Honest and shameless,” he murmurs into the swell.

"Wh- what if I say something…wrong?" The words spill out before you realize you're verbalizing them. "Something you won't like, or it ends up sounding foolish rather than—"

He moves so quickly, so fluidly, that you don't have a moment to comprehend it before it's happening.

Firmly grasping your jaw, he pulls his mouth away and pins you with a predatory stare. It makes your spine tense. "As long as you are forthright and honest with what pleases you, there are no wrong answers." His lips find the column of your neck, teeth nibbling at the skin there. “I do not expect you to be perfect, but I do demand that you let go. Submerge yourself. Tell me what you want."

What do you want?

Your eyes roll skyward, desperately thinking of something you could actually vocalize. Eventually, one very simple thought settles in your mind and sticks there.

"I want... your fingers.”

It makes you nervous just saying it out loud. Nervous in a way that is neither uncomfortable nor dreadful, but entirely strange and unlike yourself.

A noise—an exhale or a hum or a laugh, you cannot be sure—leaves his throat before he presses a small kiss to your collarbone.

“Oh, but you already have those," he purrs, purposefully being difficult, as he loves to be.

In spite of his teasing, though, your next word comes easier.

"Inside," you practically groan.

One second. That is all he waits, just a mere second, before granting your request. Two slender digits dive deep into your fluttering hole, and you choke on a breath, unprepared for the foreign fullness of it.

He laughs softly, as if sensing your inner monologue. Or, it could very well be the fact that you clamp like a vice the moment he is inside you, muscles struggling to adjust.

"Greedy little thing," he chides, amused and appreciative all the same. "Sucking me in as soon as I allow. Oh, yes, you needed this. I can tell."

And then he is moving, thrusting in and out in a fluid tempo. Slow, patient, and somehow smug. His fingers coax a staccato of choked noises from you that can best be described as obscene, each a chorus to your own embarrassingly lewd squelching.

With your jaw free from his grip, both your hands fly to his hair, seeking an anchor. His silken strands wrap themselves around your fists, and you pull, just a little too tight to be proper. In response is a sharp exhale through his nose, followed by the subtle jerk of his hips.

“The God of Mischief likes his hair pulled, then?" You pant, using the last vestiges of coherent thought. It is a new and fascinating piece of information, one you feel almost privileged for uncovering.

“Does it surprise you?"

For the first time, it occurs to you that Loki is panting, too. Hovering above, lips parted, he looks a bit…flushed. As close to ruffled as the youngest prince ever gets, that is. It sparks a confidence that is normally not present with him, a means of reprieving a tiny bit of the control.

So you pull again. Harsh and unabashed.

“Not in the slightest."

His fingers respond by quickening their pace. You are far beyond embarrassment now, chasing a high that is both confusing and intimidating. Your walls begin to twitch uncontrollably, fluttering and pulsing in warning. And in a stroke of serendipity, his clever thumb finds its way to the needy little clit begging for attention—taking over where you have subconsciously stopped.

“Oh gods—” The exclamation barely makes its way past your clenched teeth. Your fingers clamp, white and desperate, still buried within his tresses.

“Only one," his breath fans hot across your shoulder, just a tad uneven. "But do let him hear it. Let it ring for all the Nine Realms to hear."

One second his mouth is by your shoulder, the next trailing slow, open-mouth kisses between your breasts. Lower and lower, until he is propped up between your thighs and his breath fans against your unbearably hot sex.

Those devastating fingers continue to fuck in and out of you, faster and faster and faster, curling up to hit a spot you didn't know was there.

You are certain nothing has ever made you feel quite this way before—raw and primal. Powerful. Out-of-body, almost.

Then, as if he couldn't be any more depraved, a hot, flat tongue drags up the center of your throbbing cunt.

He repeats the motion twice, three, four, five times, then latches on.

Your hips jolt.

A sharp cry escapes.

And with that, it's over.

There is no stopping the wave of blinding, white-hot euphoria that washes over your senses. No holding back the strangled, animalistic noises that follow. You can feel yourself clenching and pulsing, feel the rush of liquid between your thighs and his tongue lapping you clean, but none of it makes sense.

None of it registers as reality, not until the high is fading and the room is no longer spinning. And that's when the realization hits.

You just climaxed on Loki's tongue.

Oh fuck.

The world stops turning, and you are frozen. Frozen and mortified. Because surely, surely, he is going to make some snarky remark about your lack of endurance, or the sheer volume of your moans, or the way your entire body trembles in the aftermath.

He is a cruel, callous being. A prince raised with privilege and a silver spoon in his mouth. He will mock you, berate you, and lord it over your head for years to come.

Maybe he will even tell Thor about it.

And you will deserve it. You will have brought it upon yourself.

So when his voice finally sounds beneath you, you can't help the cringe that follows.

“All my life I have assumed many things about the elven princess from Alfheim," he murmurs, his hands running soothing circles up and down the outside of your thighs. "But never did I think she would taste quite so sweet."

What?

Your eyebrows knit together, and you push yourself up onto your elbows to look at him. He is still situated between your spread legs, watching you intently. There is a shine to his chin and lips that is undeniably your doing, and his hair is mussed from your assaults.

He does not look smug, or arrogant, or malicious.

Instead, he looks pleased. Satisfied, in a way. It is not an expression you have ever seen him wear—not in your presence, at least. It puts you a little more at ease.

“Was it... adequate?" you ask, hesitantly.

A soft huff, and he is moving again. Slowly crawling his way back over you, caging you beneath his broad frame.

"I should think the answer was rather obvious."

He does not elaborate further, instead bringing two shiny, soaked fingers up to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly sucks the digits into his mouth and hums around them.

Your stomach swoops.

"Next time," he promises, releasing them with a pop. "I will teach you how to return the favor."

He rises to his feet in one smooth motion, and suddenly you are very aware of your nakedness compared to his still-clothed state.

"But for now," he turns away and dusts nothing in particular off his shirt, "I have taken up enough of your time. The hour is late, and you will need your rest."

That same green shimmer engulfs your body, and the gown is back, fitting seamlessly over your curves. Perfect and pristine, as if you hadn't been sprawled and debauched a moment ago. The only difference now is that you can feel the slick between your thighs.

You stand on shaky legs and attempt to right your appearance, smoothing the fabric and pulling a loose strand of hair away from your face.

"You will not... tell anyone?" You bite your lip and glance up at him, unable to keep the worry out of your voice. "About what just happened, I mean. Right?"

He arches a brow but otherwise seems unconcerned.

"What, and ruin my fun?" A dark chuckle, and he is walking towards the door, leaving you to trail behind. "Where would the entertainment be in that?"

His fingers close around the handle, and you find yourself at a loss. What were you supposed to do now? Just walk back to your room as if nothing had occurred?

"Wait."

Loki pauses, looking back at you over his shoulder.

"Will you not be needing… um." Your cheeks burn, and you glance at the obvious bulge in his pants, hoping he can catch the drift without making you actually say it.

"No."

Your brows furrow, confused. You may not be the most sexually experienced person in the realm, but even you know that a man cannot be expected to walk away completely unfulfilled. Besides, wasn't the point of all this for you to learn?

He smiles a secret, sly sort of smile and opens the door.

"A lesson for tomorrow," he explains. "Patience is a virtue, princess. You will learn it."

He waits expectantly, holding the door open, and you take it as your cue to leave.

But when you are a few steps out, a sudden burst of confidence overcomes you. You don't know what makes you say it—maybe the way his eyes bore into you, maybe the heat in your blood, maybe the thrill of the encounter. Whatever the reason, the words tumble out.

"Tomorrow, then," you echo.

And with that, you walk down the hallway, praying your legs won't give out before you reach your chambers.

You do not see the tension in Loki's jaw.

Nor do you see him close the door, only to immediately turn and brace his back against it, his head tilting up to stare at the ceiling.

You also don't hear him groan, nor see his hand move between his legs, gripping the aching hardness hidden beneath his ridiculously tight pants.

And certainly, you do not know what goes through his mind when he mutters, "Tomorrow."

[jadekillian]

Part 2/5

Part 1 here

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗔 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗢𝗱𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻—𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝘀𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱—𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 (𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆), 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗴𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿, 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗗𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸, 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗸𝗲𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗲𝗹𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗲𝘄?, 𝗮 𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 (𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱), 𝗮 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗴𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱, 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗵, 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁.

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝟯+(?) 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸 (𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘆), 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝟴.𝟮𝗸

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵. 𝗘𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆, 𝘀𝗹𝗼𝗼𝘁𝘀. (𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆, 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄!)

There has not been a single moment of peace in the last 12 hours.

Since fleeing Loki’s room, you had barely slept a wink. Once you did succumb to slumber, it was not without horrid dreams of jade-colored eyes, heated breath, and whispered promises that set your blood aflame with equal parts dread and uncharacteristic longing.

Even now, while you sit stiffly at the breakfast table with both royal brothers present, you have the creeping notion that you may never know peace again.

You grip your fork tightly and chew methodically, aware of the conversation being made but not truly paying attention.

The Allfather and Thor speak at length about the day's agenda: a trip to the armory, a council meeting, and something about an appearance in the training yard before attending the celebration later in the evening. Frigga sips her tea and smiles, listening patiently and interjecting on occasion. Your mother and father do the same.

It all seemed very mundane, and yet, the air around you is charged.

It would only take a small glance up from beneath your lashes to spot the source of your anxiety.

Loki.

He sits across from you, posture ramrod straight and lips pursed. The morning sunlight streams through the arched windows and catches on his raven locks, turning them to shimmering ebony.

He looks regal, almost bored. And if you hadn't witnessed the look in his eyes last night, seen the way he watched you in a manner not unlike a hungry wolf offering his prey a chance to run, you might have believed his nonchalance.

But you did see that look. And you did run. And now...

Well, now you simply don't know what to make of things.

“My lady, you have barely touched your food. Are you unwell this morning?"

Your head snaps up as Thor’s booming voice reaches you from your right, and you meet his concerned blue gaze. You offer a weak smile and a shake of your head. "I'm fine. I think perhaps the ale is still weighing on me."

It wasn’t entirely untrue. Your stomach does feel a bit off this morning, and your head is a tad foggy, but the real cause of your lack of appetite is currently smirking down at his plate, the evil little bastard no doubt taking great pleasure in the fact that he has thoroughly ruined your sleep, appetite, and sanity.

Thor laughs, the sound echoing around the dining area. "Yes, well, the ale was indeed potent."

The blond prince reaches out and gently places a large, warm hand over yours. He gives it a quick squeeze, a gesture meant to comfort, and offers a dazzling smile.

"Perhaps tonight we should keep to the mead. Or try the new wine I heard is in port from Vanaheim. Something lighter. What do you say?"

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you nod, though it falters the instant a familiar, velvety voice enters the fray.

"Brother, do you truly believe it wise to allow her another evening of indulgence? After last night's spectacle of staggering into my room at such an hour, I fear any more merriment might be a mistake."

Your heart seizes at Loki's words, and your cheeks flame with a blush that rivals the hue of your dress.

What in the name of hel was he doing? Surely he wouldn’t actually go through with his threat—he couldn’t hate you that much, could he?

You risk a glance at Thor and find that his relaxed expression has faltered. There was a deep furrow in his brow and a hint of confusion dancing behind his eyes.

"Your room?" he asks, tone laced with bewilderment.

Your shoulders tense as Loki turns his sharp gaze onto you, a devious grin gracing his thin lips. He tilts his head and studies your face with the air of a cat observing a particularly amusing mouse, and you are certain that any minute now, he is going to open his mouth and ruin you forever.

Odin would banish you and your family from Asgard, and Thor, the man you have spent most of your life pining for, will never so much as look at you again. Alfheim would take you back in an instant, but you would be ruined. Without an alliance, your people would surely suffer, and the shame would follow you until the end of your days.

Your image… Your dignity… Everything would be ripped away by one cleverly placed lie.

You open your mouth, prepared to deny everything and pray to the Norns that Thor will not believe the younger prince. “I can ex—”

"Yes," Loki answers, cutting you off before you can utter another word. "It was amusing. She came barging into my chambers, drunk as a Midgardian sailor, and asked me to brew up a potion to rid her of the headache she predicted would plague her come morning.”

You blink once. Twice.

That was not the lie you had expected. You are so full of relief that it takes a monumental effort not to visibly relax in your seat.

Instead, you swallow the lump forming in your throat and offer a strained smile.

"Yes, well," you begin, casting a quick glance toward the Allfather, "I was in desperate need of a remedy, lest I be unable to dance and properly celebrate my engagement with our guests come tonight."

Thor seems pleased with your response, and Odin appears satisfied, but the queen's eyes have narrowed slightly, and you suddenly feel very exposed.

"Ah, and was he able to assist you, my dear?" She asks, her gaze flickering between you and her youngest son.

"I—well—"

"Able to assist her? Yes.” Loki interjects once more. You can’t help the feeling that his choice of words was deliberate, a subtle double entendre meant only for you. “But she fled my room before I could give her the draught. Perhaps she decided that accepting my help was too much to bear.”

His words are innocent enough, but the way he leans back in his seat and analyzes your reaction is anything but. It feels like an accusation and a silent challenge.

Thor laughs a hearty laugh, pulling you both from your wordless battle of wills. “A wise decision on her part, I would say. Knowing Loki, I would wager there was nothing in that bottle but a trickster's brew, and you would wake to find yourself in an even worse state than when you entered."

Loki offers his brother a tight smile but says nothing. Instead, he lifts his goblet and takes a long drink, the muscles of his throat working as he swallows. Obviously, he had not appreciated the jest.

Thor continues, seemingly oblivious. "It is no matter, though. I am sure the healers will have something for your headache, my lady."

"Thank you," you manage to reply, silently hoping your voice did not betray the tension tightening in your throat. "I will be sure to stop by after breakfast."

The Allfather and Thor turn back to their previous discussion, but Frigga's attention remains on Loki. It was only for a moment, but you saw it: the subtle tightening of her mouth, the worried crinkle around her eyes. It was clear the queen sensed something was amiss with her mischievous son, though she may not know what.

You could only hope she never would.

***

Three hours and a healing draught later, your head is considerably clearer than it had been before. Not mentally, for even with your brain free from the lingering effects of one too many drinks, it remains cluttered with the thoughts and memories of last night. And now, thanks to the most obnoxious god in Asgard, this morning had gone on to be just as eventful.

But that was to be expected.

Really, when was the last time you had encountered Loki without it taking an unwanted turn?

With an irritated sigh, you begin to strip off your dress, the luxurious fabric falling to your feet in a soft puddle of velvet. Next are your undergarments, the delicate silk fluttering to the floor much in the same manner.

Steam curls through the air, warm against your naked skin as you step toward the deep, spaciously round tub filled with aromatic oils, fluffy bubbles, and blessedly hot water.

You lower yourself into the marble-stained hole and bite back a satisfied moan as the heat creeps into your weary bones. It feels glorious, like Valhalla on your flesh, and you lean your head against the rim, giving in to the wonderful feeling and closing your eyes.

The royal bath chamber is a lavish place—spacious and opulently furnished, adorned in muted golds and rich ivory, with thick tapestries hanging against the walls and sconces bearing silken candles that emit a warm, inviting glow. It was one of your favorite places in the entire palace, second perhaps only to the grand library.

“Should I wash your hair or soap your back, Princess?”

Your assigned handmaiden, a lovely Asgardian woman named Grima, smiles from her spot near the door, a white robe and a pair of soft, matching slippers clutched in her arms.

“No, that won't be necessary. I can finish up on my own. Just make sure to alert the seamstress that I will be by at midday to collect my dress for tonight.”

You refrain from revealing any hints of dread in your voice. You could name a hundred more things you'd rather spend an afternoon doing than playing the part of a perfect trophy princess and enduring countless dull, tedious conversations regarding Thor’s sexual prowess.

Like, say, stabbing yourself with the sharpest sword the greatest blacksmith had ever forged.

"Very well." Grima nods. "Shall I send for a guard to stand watch outside the entrance in the meantime?"

You simply wave a dismissive hand. "No need. I will not be too long."

The woman sets your garments aside, bids you a curt goodbye, and quietly slips out the door. It clicks shut with a dull thud, and then you are alone.

No family. No advisors. No duties. No insufferable princes hellbent on dragging you through the seven rings of hel.

Just a cozy bath, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, and silence. But then again, nothing so wonderful ever really lasts long.

Not even a few minutes pass before the creaking door signals the intrusion upon your peace and quiet. Considering everyone else was already in attendance at today's proceedings, you have only one guess as to who would enter.

“Grima, I thought I said I was fi—”

“You know, you might find these steam rooms provide better isolation if you learned to lock the door.”

All vestiges of serenity you had found melt into a black hole along with your stomach. A dreadful chill creeps across your flesh in spite of the surrounding heat, and your temples begin to throb all over again.

“And you might find a little common courtesy to knock not just advisable, but painfully necessary,” you seethe, subconsciously sinking further beneath the frothy water.

Loki ignores your barely veiled hostility and closes the heavy wooden door behind him, giving the brass lock a firm twist. The low snick it makes gives you little comfort.

In fact, every little detail about the situation—his careless bravado, the way he swiftly approaches the tub, the smell of leather and pine that hangs thick in the air around him—prompts an urge to flee that is almost overwhelming.

“I am a prince, and last I recall, the baths are not off limits to royalty."

The words are mocking, taunting. A dare, as if the snake was silently begging you to try and order a crowned prince from the baths when he knows very well you have no right. You were not officially a princess of Asgard yet, after all. Your status only rose in par with his in 3 days time—once your union with Thor took place.

And Loki is damn well aware of that, the vile creature.

“Seriously, Loki. Have you not done enough damage this morning?" Your jaw tightens, your hand gripping the edge of the tub hard enough for your knuckles to turn white. "Honestly, stooping so low as to threaten me was petty, even for you. Bravo. Now what do you want, the gloat?”

You notice his eyes soften a tad at your accusations, and there is an inkling of pity beneath the mask of arrogance he sports so well. He almost looks uncomfortable—perhaps even contrite—but the expression quickly disappears. In its place is a haughty roll of his eyes.

“Damage?” He echoes, the word laced with acidity. He scoffs. "What I did this morning was, if anything, salvage my dear brother's precious betrothed from a scandal.”

His footsteps echo dully as he advances, eventually stopping to kneel down at the tub's edge. The distance is uncomfortably close, and his very proximity prickles the hairs at the nape of your neck.

“When you came barreling into my chambers last night, I highly doubt discretion was anywhere near your mind. All it would take is one guard, one passing servant to have witnessed you—drunk and disheveled—stepping out of the wrong prince’s room at an hour far too late for innocuous reasons," he lowers his voice as if sharing a salacious secret, gaze unwavering, "and you would have been ruined."

He was right, infuriatingly so.

The image would have been damning, regardless of how false the accusations might have been.

The princess, drunk, stumbling around the palace after dark and entering the prince's bedchambers—alone and without escort—was a story far too juicy for the gossiping hounds to pass up.

Still, you are too stubborn and far too irritated to concede his point, let alone give him the satisfaction of knowing he is right.

"Yes, thank you, oh great savior, for the noble rescue." You roll your eyes. "And while we're on the subject, what is stopping me from telling Thor about your little proposition? What then?"

A slow smirk curves the edge of his lips.

"If you were going to do that, you would have done so by now."

You swallow, unable to tear your gaze away from his, no matter how much you want to.

"I believe," he whispers, bringing his mouth dangerously close to your ear. "It is because deep down, you are considering my offer.”

You are suddenly aware of every dip and curve of his face, every minute shift and subtle change in his features. The way his tongue darts out and moistens his lower lip and how his eyes flicker down, briefly, before they rise once more and lock with yours.

Most prominently, you are aware of the warmth spreading through your stomach and how sickeningly wrong it is. You push back against the feeling and steel yourself, mustering every ounce of disdain you could manage.

"I am not."

It comes out hoarse and unconvincing.

You try again.

“It would be a betrayal. I love him."

That one you believe.

Loki is quiet for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then, he moves to his feet.

"So you keep saying."

There is something in his expression you cannot read, though it is gone too soon for you to try and decipher.

You watch, bewildered, as his long, elegant fingers deftly begin to undo his shirt buttons.

“What are you doing?!" You hiss, panic setting in as he shrugs nonchalantly, the fabric slipping away to reveal the smooth skin beneath. His boots were already abandoned and forgotten somewhere.

"I'm joining you," he replies matter-of-factly, sure enough making work at his trousers.

"What? No. Absolutely not!" You protest, trying desperately not to notice how perfectly defined his stomach is, or the sharp angles of his hips, or the dark trail of hair that begins just below his navel and descends to-

Oh god.

You look away, but not quick enough.

Loki was, well... gifted, to put it mildly. You have heard tales of his bedroom antics, mostly whispered rumors between maids and giggling men and women at the court, but seeing was another thing entirely.

"Are you insane?" You hiss, forcing yourself not to stare. "Do you have no shame?"

"Shame?" He chuckles, stepping out of his trousers. "None."

You are not sure whether the sudden rush of heat flooding your body is embarrassment or... something else. Either way, you feel as if you are about to die.

“As I said earlier, there is no rule that prohibits royalty from using the baths whenever they see fit. You are not the only one entitled to a little relaxation."

With that, he steps into the tub, water sloshing over the sides as he sinks his lean frame into the depths—so close that your knees brush together, and the hair on his legs tickles your skin.

The tension in the room is suffocating.

You stare blankly at the wall, trying to focus on anything but the naked god seated across from you, or how his presence seems to dominate the room and make it smaller, almost claustrophobic.

"You can relax. I am not going to attack you." He snorts, amused. "Although, it does seem as if your thoughts are doing quite the job on their own."

"How would you know what my thoughts are?" The question escapes you before you have the chance to stop it. You instantly regret it.

“Because, if you were thinking about what was proper, you would have left the second you realized you were not alone." A beat passes, and then, much to your chagrin, Loki begins to shift closer. His long fingers find your knee, the pad of his thumb grazing along the top. “Yet here you sit, unmoving and unflinching. Why is that, I wonder?"

The sensation is electric. Similar to a wire, exposed and frayed, sending jolts of electricity through your veins. Your entire body is alight with a foreign energy—a tingling, throbbing pulse that has no business existing, least of all between your legs.

But exist it does.

And you have never been more ashamed of yourself.

“I will stop if you ask me to." His voice is a mere whisper now. "Say the words, and this ends. I will leave, and we will never speak of this again.”

His touch travels upwards, higher, until it pauses at your inner thigh.

"But,” he leans forward, nose grazing the side of your cheek, “I warn you, this is my final offer. Say no now, and you will have to find your own means to learn—though I highly doubt you wish to humiliate yourself so publicly. The choice is yours."

You cannot move.

Your brain, which had always functioned so reliably and effectively, has gone completely blank.

There is no right decision. One path is immoral and dishonest. The other is shameful and embarrassing.

Remain faithful, or be seen as inadequate by your people and, worst of all, Thor?

Either way, you are bound to be humiliated. The only difference is that the former is public. The latter would be private.

You close your eyes and think of Thor—of his warm smile and sunny laugh. The way he made you feel safe and whole. But accompanying these pleasant images, you remember why you had sought refuge in several bottles and found yourself in this situation to begin with.

The ceremony, the bedding, the people.

Their stares, their whispers, their judgments.

So, despite your conscience screaming at you to do the right thing and reject the tempting offer, you whisper a single, solitary word.

"Okay."

It's a mistake. You know that.

You know it when you feel his hands encircle your waist and drag you through the water to straddle his lap.

You know it when his cock, almost fully erect, presses insistently against your abdomen.

And you know it most certainly, without a shred of doubt, when his lips finally close over yours.

It is like being kissed by winter itself. Cool and harsh and unforgiving. Yet, in spite of the frigidity, a flame still ignites deep within you. A dangerous, treacherous, all-consuming inferno that threatens to burn down everything good in your life and reduce you to ashes.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you mimic the action to the best of your ability, kissing him back.

There is no grace, no technique. Your movements are sloppy and uncoordinated, and your hands awkwardly rest on his shoulders as if unsure where to touch or what to do. You have never felt more like a bumbling virgin than you do now, and that realization alone causes a wave of shame to wash over you.

The fact that the person kissing you was Loki did not help matters in the slightest.

You half expect him to pull back, make some derisive comment about how pathetic you are, or laugh at you for foolishly falling for a cruel trick. But, surprisingly, he does none of those things. Rather, he cups the back of your head and slows the kiss down, allowing his lips to move leisurely against yours.

It is an unexpected gesture, and one that leaves you feeling both stunned and a tad less intimidated. Encouraged even.

You mimic his movement, the way his mouth tilts and the rhythm it keeps. You memorize the subtle pressure he applies and the pattern of the dance. Less necessary information is filed away in the recesses of your brain—the faint taste of mint, the coolness of his breath, and the soft texture of his lips.

After a few moments, he breaks away, leaving your lungs gasping for air and your cheeks flushed. You can still feel the pressure, a reminder of your treachery. Subconsciously, your fingers lift to touch the spot.

His eyes track the motion, and you could swear, for a fleeting second, he looked almost wistful.

The moment does not last long.

His face grows unreadable, and then he is moving you off his lap and into the space beside him.

"Meet me in my chambers an hour after tonight’s celebration has concluded.”

You barely have time to register what had just happened before he is rising out of the bath, the water rushing down his back in rivulets and dripping off the tips of his hair.

It takes a moment for the statement to process in your haze-ridden brain. When it does, your throat is too dry for words, so you simply nod.

He waves a hand, and an emerald robe manifests around his body, completely shielding his nakedness—and granting you a reprieve.

The door creaks open, and you catch the tail end of his sentence.

"And do try not to drink yourself into a stupor again before you arrive."

With that, he is gone. Leaving you just as confused and guilty as before. Perhaps more.

You just had your first kiss.

And holy shit, it was with Loki Odinson.

***

You had intended to tell Thor.

All throughout the evening, all throughout the dancing, all throughout the nightly celebration, you had wanted to confront him. Yet, each time your morals sparked enough to grant you the courage, something would happen.

Someone would ask him for a dance, and he would leave to accommodate his obligatory duties.

Another would congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, and your stomach would twist unpleasantly.

The few moments you did get a private second alone with him to confess, you suddenly lost your nerve. It was like the words were trapped somewhere between your brain and throat, hidden behind a massive wall and denied passage.

And now, with the revelers having retired and the servants dismissed for the evening, you sit on a particular sofa in a particular room for the second time in your entire life, only this time you don’t have the excuse of being drunk or disoriented for being there. You are sober and painfully aware of what is about to happen.

Rich, red wine drizzles from a carafe into a glass, filling it halfway. The sweet aroma of spices and fermented berries fills the air.

Loki stands a few paces away, back turned to you. You are unsure whether he is purposely ignoring you or lost in thought, but either way, the silence is making you increasingly uncomfortable.

You shift on the plush sofa, and the sound of the material crinkling is loud. Far too loud for this quiet room.

His head turns, and the corner of his lip quirks slightly.

"Nervous?"

It's not an accusation.

"No." You lie, hoping he doesn't hear the way your voice shakes.

He turns, wine in hand, and slowly strides toward the sofa, pausing in front of you.

"Here.” He extends the glass, and after a moment of hesitation, you take it.

“I thought you said no alcohol,” you mutter.

His eyes roll heavenward, and you have to refrain from making a scathing comment about how petulant the action makes him look.

“I suggested that you avoid drinking so much, seeing as you are unable to handle your ale. This,” he gestures towards the glass, "is merely a means to calm your nerves."

You glare up at him but do not argue the point. Instead, you bring the rim to your lips and let the sweet liquid coat your tongue.

He watches the action with rapt attention, his gaze following the curve of your throat as you swallow.

You drain the rest unnaturally fast and place the empty glass on the table beside the sofa.

"Well?" You prompt, folding your hands in your lap. "What happens now?"

"What do you think comes first?”

"…sex?”

You wince at your own bluntness, wishing you would have chosen better phrasing.

He raises his brows, amusement evident. "Eager, are we?"

Heat rushes to your face, and you look down.

"No… I just—” don’t know what to say or do, your brain helpfully supplies. Your shoulders slump, and your tone takes a defensive edge. "If you plan on mocking me, then I will leave."

He studies you for a moment, contemplative, then sighs deep from within his chest. "Look at me."

His words are softer than you’ve ever heard them, but you don’t miss the hint of authority behind the demand. When you don’t comply fast enough, cool fingers grasp your chin and lift your gaze upwards. He is closer than you remembered, and you find yourself breathless for the millionth time that night.

“My intention is not to demean you. Quite the opposite, in fact." His thumb swipes along your lower lip. "But if you wish for me to guide you, to explain things in a manner you will understand, it would be in your best interest to drop your guard.”

Sharp eyes study your reaction, gauging your next move. When you don’t shy away or try to pull from his grip, he continues.

“Starting now, when we are in the privacy of this room, you will cease whatever silly rules of propriety, court etiquette, or modesty you might have been raised to believe. You will not look at me as Thor’s brother, nor yourself as his betrothed. When those doors close, those titles have no significance or power. Only pleasure.”

Something odd, and definitely not appropriate, stirred in your belly at the sound of that final word rolling off his tongue.

Pleasure.

"And when the doors open again?"

"When the doors open," his thumb moves once more, an erotic brush to your cheek, "we go back to reality and carry on as if nothing happened. Me, a little more satisfied—and you, a little more experienced.”

"And you can separate the two easily?"

There was a beat, heavy and permeating.

“As easily as you, I imagine.”

This time, you are the one who makes the first move.

Your arms wind themselves behind his neck, and you pull his mouth down until your lips are joined. He complies without an ounce of resistance, though the surprise is tangible. It is reminiscent of the kiss in the baths, except this time, you are the one who dictates its pace. Slow, methodical. Each part is explored, and each movement is dissected. Before long, you have memorized the curve of his lips and the manner in which they react to different pressure.

It is sloppy at first, a learning experience. But the longer the kiss is allowed to continue, the more you find yourself falling into a routine.

The tension in your body, however, remains. Your shoulders are stiff, and the position is awkward at best. Eventually, he must pick up on this, because his next move is bold.

A soft press on your shoulder guides you backward until your spine sinks into the cushions below with his solid frame hovering above you—one leg bent between your parted thighs and the other supporting his weight on the floor.

Only then, when he releases your mouth with a wet smack, do you realize you've been holding your breath.

You exhale through parted lips and stare, wide-eyed, up at him. He is practically shining above you, the moonlight pouring through the windows and bathing him in a near-supernatural aura. It drapes him in a sense of untouchable regality, enhancing the planes and angles of his cheekbones, his nose, and his jaw, until he looks more like a statue carved from marble.

You’ve never noticed the sharp curve of his ear or the faint scar resting above the left of his brow—so subtle that a quick glance would make it nearly invisible. This close now, it seems impossible to have ever missed.

“You are thinking too hard," he murmurs, causing your eyelids to flutter, "And wearing far too many layers. We will have to remedy that."

You open your mouth to protest, only to watch helplessly as a green shimmer whisks your gown away, leaving you in nothing but flesh.

The action leaves you feeling exposed and vulnerable. You try to cover yourself with your hands, but he is quicker. His long fingers circle your wrists and pin them above your head, exposing the swell of your breasts and the pink peaks of your nipples.

You squirm, suddenly embarrassed, but he tightens his grip.

“No undergarments?” A wolfish grin tugs at the corner of his lips. "My, my... I had not pegged you for a temptress. Had you been hoping to make yourself more accessible for me, or do you always strut around the castle so brazenly bare underneath your clothing?”

In all honesty, you did not own a single garment appropriate for the occasion. Virginal white didn't necessarily suit the mood for a secret affair—but there was no way in all the nine realms you would admit as much to Loki. So you pretend his question was rhetorical and remain stoically silent.

He chuckles at this. A rich, warm sound that is entirely too pleasant and smooth to be coming from the God of Mischief himself.

“Well, whether you intended for such a thing to come to fruition, the result is the same—so why shy from it now?"

His free hand glides down the side of your body, allowing you to feel every featherlight touch before it passes over your abdomen and towards your hips.

“Have you ever pleasured yourself before?” His voice is conversational, as if he is speaking about the weather and not asking the most intimate question possible. As if it were a question you were expected to answer. “Guided your hand down this very path, and let those curious fingers wander to where the heat and ache were most prominent... only to stroke yourself into oblivion?"

You almost can’t believe such filthy words could pass between his lips so easily. Involuntarily, you shudder, and something slick and tingly bursts in your stomach like firecrackers.

At least four different responses compete to leave your mouth, but the only thing you manage to voice is a tiny, shameful croak.

"Once or twice..." You wince and mentally kick yourself.

"Oh?" Cool fingers glide lower, lower, lower, until they are just shy of brushing between your thighs. "Do tell.”

"Loki—"

"Humor me."

Suddenly, he dips two fingers between the shockingly drenched seam of your lower lips and spreads you open, exposing your soaked cunt to his scrutiny.

The instinct to clamp your thighs together, to hide away, is overwhelming and intense. And in true Loki fashion, he pins your legs down with his knee, forbidding you from any sort of modesty. Not that it mattered now.

"Like this?" Up and down, up and down. Almost taunting in nature, his middle and pointer fingers glide in excruciatingly slow stripes. They are purposely avoidant, paying no mind to the cluster of nerves that are now screaming for attention.

“No,” you choke.

His tongue clicks in a mocking fashion.

"No?” He feigns confusion before giving three heavy taps directly against your swollen clit. You jolt beneath him, a gasp lodging itself in your throat. In reward—or punishment, depending on one's definition—he cockily repeats the motion again. “Something like this, then?"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“N-not exactly,” you grit.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Ah, a bit more like... this?"

Without warning, the relentless presses morph into slow, skilled circles from his thumb. No longer is the swollen bud neglected but teased to the brink of torture. You can feel every twitch, every careful glide, and it draws a shameless whine from your throat.

You want to hate it. To wriggle free from his grasp and demand he stop whatever this is, but your body is no longer under your control. Blood is steadily roaring in your ears and pulsing fiercely between your legs, and a terrible itch has emerged.

You can do nothing but lift your hips in a hopeless attempt to seek more.

His eyes are alight in a way you’ve never seen before. Dark and full of mirth, swirling with curiosity and a near-sinister aura.

“Oh, yes,” he purrs in appreciation, speeding up his movements, apparently pleased with your vocal response. "This is correct, then?"

All you can do is nod, too overwhelmed to do anything other than swallow the urge to beg.

Then, so abruptly that it leaves your body confused and throbbing, the pressure ceases.

“Show me, then," he prompts, finally releasing your wrists and giving you back control.

"Wh-what?" Your voice trembles, as does your chin.

"Pleasure yourself." The command is far more imposing now, the air filled with demand rather than suggestion. “Since your tongue has ceased to cooperate, I require a means of direction."

You gape at him, looking for any trace of humor, but he seems deadly serious.

“I thought you were to guide me?" You argue, furrowing your brows. "Not the other way around."

He only shrugs, unconcerned with your inner turmoil.

“Your first lesson… letting go of shame." With these words, he eases off the sofa and hovers, watching you expectantly. Continuing, he adds, "If the thought of gratifying yourself while I watch mortifies you, then how do you intend to perform with all of Asgard watching on the night of your consummation?"

You want to curse his logic but have no means of arguing its point.

His large, cool palm cups your own and guides it downward, a soft, encouraging press. You don’t stop him. Not when he helps you position your shaking fingertips over the still aching nerves, nor when he guides you through the first hesitant circle.

"Keep going," his voice is honey, sweet and laced, "Close your eyes if you must, but allow it to take over. There is nothing shameful in satisfying a need, not when it makes your blood run hot and your mind race in anticipation. Don’t fight what feels good; focus on your instinct."

You have never felt more ridiculous or absurd in your entire life. Yet, against your better judgment, you do as instructed.

Eyes shut, breathing shallow, you begin again. Slowly at first, your timid swipes unsure and lacking a certain rhythm.

“Exactly like that,” he encourages, and you hate the fact that his voice sends another gush between your thighs. “Is this how you touch yourself in the comfort and seclusion of your chambers? In the night, perhaps, when you think everyone else has long fallen into rest and dreams. Is this how you relieve your hunger, little minx?"

A sound escapes from deep in your throat—something cross between a pathetic mewl and an irate grunt—because despite how odd and humiliating this ordeal is, it is starting to make you feel undeniably good.

He chuckles low at the sight, clearly taking your response as a sign to keep talking. Whether or not you should feel disgusted with yourself for actually enjoying his filthy whispers was lost in a sea of endorphins, floating alongside your fleeting pride.

“Are you always so drenched, or have I earned a special sort of reaction?" His hands graze the sides of your trembling thighs, spreading them wider for his gaze. “I mean, truly… leaking onto my cushions like an untamed whore. Who would have guessed Alfheim’s pure little princess harbored such depravity?”

The crass nature of his language should make your stomach turn or offend your sense of dignity. It shouldn’t rile you into adding more pressure and speeding up the pace of your fingers—yet, that is exactly what is happening.

“Are you picturing my fingers stroking you to completion?" He continues, merciless and taunting and far too perceptive for your liking. "Or is the fantasy too obscene for your innocent mind to conjure? What wicked thoughts lie behind those naive eyes?”

"Loki." It comes out as an angry hiss, the last string of your resolve threatening to snap.

"What?" His tone is impish, purposely casual. He is enjoying himself greatly. "Simply inquiring."

With a growl, you pry your eyes open to glare at him, hoping your expression accurately relays the breadth of your annoyance.

Apparently, it doesn't.

"Yes, there she is." His smile is broad and arrogant, almost proud, as if this were the point he was trying to make all along. "Emotion. Reaction. So much more honest than when you try to suppress what you are feeling. Of course, we will have to work on those deadly, glaring eyes. Unless you intend to battle your bed partner rather than seduce him."

You have no time to form a retort because his head lowers and captures one of your nipples with the heat of his tongue. It is a completely shocking sensation—unexpected, new, and confusing, but very much not unpleasant. You gasp at the wet lick and squirm against his hold, fingers stuttering in your ministrations.

It does nothing to discourage him. If anything, the reaction incites him further. With a hand squeezing your right breast and mouth devouring your left, his hand rejoins the onslaught between your legs. Only this time, it does not settle for lazy strokes and teasing circles but works its own rhythm atop your fingertips.

“Allow your tongue some freedom. Tell me what feels nice, what isn’t quite right.” His teeth give a soft nip to the tight peak before he switches his attention to its twin, lavishing it just the same. "Honest and shameless,” he murmurs into the swell.

"Wh- what if I say something…wrong?" The words spill out before you realize you're verbalizing them. "Something you won't like, or it ends up sounding foolish rather than—"

He moves so quickly, so fluidly, that you don't have a moment to comprehend it before it's happening.

Firmly grasping your jaw, he pulls his mouth away and pins you with a predatory stare. It makes your spine tense. "As long as you are forthright and honest with what pleases you, there are no wrong answers." His lips find the column of your neck, teeth nibbling at the skin there. “I do not expect you to be perfect, but I do demand that you let go. Submerge yourself. Tell me what you want."

What do you want?

Your eyes roll skyward, desperately thinking of something you could actually vocalize. Eventually, one very simple thought settles in your mind and sticks there.

"I want... your fingers.”

It makes you nervous just saying it out loud. Nervous in a way that is neither uncomfortable nor dreadful, but entirely strange and unlike yourself.

A noise—an exhale or a hum or a laugh, you cannot be sure—leaves his throat before he presses a small kiss to your collarbone.

“Oh, but you already have those," he purrs, purposefully being difficult, as he loves to be.

In spite of his teasing, though, your next word comes easier.

"Inside," you practically groan.

One second. That is all he waits, just a mere second, before granting your request. Two slender digits dive deep into your fluttering hole, and you choke on a breath, unprepared for the foreign fullness of it.

He laughs softly, as if sensing your inner monologue. Or, it could very well be the fact that you clamp like a vice the moment he is inside you, muscles struggling to adjust.

"Greedy little thing," he chides, amused and appreciative all the same. "Sucking me in as soon as I allow. Oh, yes, you needed this. I can tell."

And then he is moving, thrusting in and out in a fluid tempo. Slow, patient, and somehow smug. His fingers coax a staccato of choked noises from you that can best be described as obscene, each a chorus to your own embarrassingly lewd squelching.

With your jaw free from his grip, both your hands fly to his hair, seeking an anchor. His silken strands wrap themselves around your fists, and you pull, just a little too tight to be proper. In response is a sharp exhale through his nose, followed by the subtle jerk of his hips.

“The God of Mischief likes his hair pulled, then?" You pant, using the last vestiges of coherent thought. It is a new and fascinating piece of information, one you feel almost privileged for uncovering.

“Does it surprise you?"

For the first time, it occurs to you that Loki is panting, too. Hovering above, lips parted, he looks a bit…flushed. As close to ruffled as the youngest prince ever gets, that is. It sparks a confidence that is normally not present with him, a means of reprieving a tiny bit of the control.

So you pull again. Harsh and unabashed.

“Not in the slightest."

His fingers respond by quickening their pace. You are far beyond embarrassment now, chasing a high that is both confusing and intimidating. Your walls begin to twitch uncontrollably, fluttering and pulsing in warning. And in a stroke of serendipity, his clever thumb finds its way to the needy little clit begging for attention—taking over where you have subconsciously stopped.

“Oh gods—” The exclamation barely makes its way past your clenched teeth. Your fingers clamp, white and desperate, still buried within his tresses.

“Only one," his breath fans hot across your shoulder, just a tad uneven. "But do let him hear it. Let it ring for all the Nine Realms to hear."

One second his mouth is by your shoulder, the next trailing slow, open-mouth kisses between your breasts. Lower and lower, until he is propped up between your thighs and his breath fans against your unbearably hot sex.

Those devastating fingers continue to fuck in and out of you, faster and faster and faster, curling up to hit a spot you didn't know was there.

You are certain nothing has ever made you feel quite this way before—raw and primal. Powerful. Out-of-body, almost.

Then, as if he couldn't be any more depraved, a hot, flat tongue drags up the center of your throbbing cunt.

He repeats the motion twice, three, four, five times, then latches on.

Your hips jolt.

A sharp cry escapes.

And with that, it's over.

There is no stopping the wave of blinding, white-hot euphoria that washes over your senses. No holding back the strangled, animalistic noises that follow. You can feel yourself clenching and pulsing, feel the rush of liquid between your thighs and his tongue lapping you clean, but none of it makes sense.

None of it registers as reality, not until the high is fading and the room is no longer spinning. And that's when the realization hits.

You just climaxed on Loki's tongue.

Oh fuck.

The world stops turning, and you are frozen. Frozen and mortified. Because surely, surely, he is going to make some snarky remark about your lack of endurance, or the sheer volume of your moans, or the way your entire body trembles in the aftermath.

He is a cruel, callous being. A prince raised with privilege and a silver spoon in his mouth. He will mock you, berate you, and lord it over your head for years to come.

Maybe he will even tell Thor about it.

And you will deserve it. You will have brought it upon yourself.

So when his voice finally sounds beneath you, you can't help the cringe that follows.

“All my life I have assumed many things about the elven princess from Alfheim," he murmurs, his hands running soothing circles up and down the outside of your thighs. "But never did I think she would taste quite so sweet."

What?

Your eyebrows knit together, and you push yourself up onto your elbows to look at him. He is still situated between your spread legs, watching you intently. There is a shine to his chin and lips that is undeniably your doing, and his hair is mussed from your assaults.

He does not look smug, or arrogant, or malicious.

Instead, he looks pleased. Satisfied, in a way. It is not an expression you have ever seen him wear—not in your presence, at least. It puts you a little more at ease.

“Was it... adequate?" you ask, hesitantly.

A soft huff, and he is moving again. Slowly crawling his way back over you, caging you beneath his broad frame.

"I should think the answer was rather obvious."

He does not elaborate further, instead bringing two shiny, soaked fingers up to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly sucks the digits into his mouth and hums around them.

Your stomach swoops.

"Next time," he promises, releasing them with a pop. "I will teach you how to return the favor."

He rises to his feet in one smooth motion, and suddenly you are very aware of your nakedness compared to his still-clothed state.

"But for now," he turns away and dusts nothing in particular off his shirt, "I have taken up enough of your time. The hour is late, and you will need your rest."

That same green shimmer engulfs your body, and the gown is back, fitting seamlessly over your curves. Perfect and pristine, as if you hadn't been sprawled and debauched a moment ago. The only difference now is that you can feel the slick between your thighs.

You stand on shaky legs and attempt to right your appearance, smoothing the fabric and pulling a loose strand of hair away from your face.

"You will not... tell anyone?" You bite your lip and glance up at him, unable to keep the worry out of your voice. "About what just happened, I mean. Right?"

He arches a brow but otherwise seems unconcerned.

"What, and ruin my fun?" A dark chuckle, and he is walking towards the door, leaving you to trail behind. "Where would the entertainment be in that?"

His fingers close around the handle, and you find yourself at a loss. What were you supposed to do now? Just walk back to your room as if nothing had occurred?

"Wait."

Loki pauses, looking back at you over his shoulder.

"Will you not be needing… um." Your cheeks burn, and you glance at the obvious bulge in his pants, hoping he can catch the drift without making you actually say it.

"No."

Your brows furrow, confused. You may not be the most sexually experienced person in the realm, but even you know that a man cannot be expected to walk away completely unfulfilled. Besides, wasn't the point of all this for you to learn?

He smiles a secret, sly sort of smile and opens the door.

"A lesson for tomorrow," he explains. "Patience is a virtue, princess. You will learn it."

He waits expectantly, holding the door open, and you take it as your cue to leave.

But when you are a few steps out, a sudden burst of confidence overcomes you. You don't know what makes you say it—maybe the way his eyes bore into you, maybe the heat in your blood, maybe the thrill of the encounter. Whatever the reason, the words tumble out.

"Tomorrow, then," you echo.

And with that, you walk down the hallway, praying your legs won't give out before you reach your chambers.

You do not see the tension in Loki's jaw.

Nor do you see him close the door, only to immediately turn and brace his back against it, his head tilting up to stare at the ceiling.

You also don't hear him groan, nor see his hand move between his legs, gripping the aching hardness hidden beneath his ridiculously tight pants.

And certainly, you do not know what goes through his mind when he mutters, "Tomorrow."

[jadekillian]

Part 1/5

Part 2 here

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗔 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗢𝗱𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻—𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝘀𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱—𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 (𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆), 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗴𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝗩𝘂𝗹𝗴𝗮𝗿 𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗮𝗴𝗲, 𝗦𝘂𝗴𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲, 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗻 𝗱𝗼𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝘄𝗸𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻, 𝗮𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗵𝗼𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁y

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝟯+(?) 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸 (𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘆), 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝟱.𝟵𝗸

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘁. 𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗮𝘀𝗸 𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗺𝗳𝗮𝗼.

You were more accustomed to the golden halls of Asgard than the floral ones of Alfheim, more familiar with rounded ears than the long, pointed ones you were born with.

The blood princess of the light elves, yet your childhood was spent not preparing to ascend the throne of your own realm, but adapting to the politics and ways of the Æsir.

It wasn’t until you were a few centuries old—and no longer considered a child by Æsir or elven standards—that the true reason for your upbringing in Asgard was revealed to you.

It was not an uncommon practice within the nine realms to wed for alliances rather than for love, so the knowledge that you were set to marry a prince of the very realm you had called second home since the early stages of youth hadn’t come as such a shock.

Not many who found themselves in a similar situation could look to the future with any sort of contentment; to marry someone you had no true feelings for, and in most cases, had only known or interacted with through meetings filled with people, was a burden that many young royals bore. In your case, however, there was reason to look ahead and find relief, for you had in fact known Thor Odinson for most of your life.

You can still recall the very first day you met.

“Be mindful of that first impression, for it is the first which sticks,” your mother had wisely advised before an introductory feast with the royal family of Asgard. You had been so petrified of doing something that would project shame and ill-manners upon you and your people. You had been as stiff as stone during most of that dinner.

Thor had not shared the same level of nerves, for the young prince happily and enthusiastically gorged himself on nearly everything that was served. A cracking voice which was still undergoing that most awkward part of boyhood seeping into every attempt at conversation.

Next to him sat his brother, Loki, a younger—though far more reserved—version of Thor, whose inquisitive eyes, not yet the cleverness or cruelty they would later be famed for, openly studied you without once shying away.

The first impression had indeed stuck.

Thor and his brother became frequent fixtures in your life as the years went by, and while it was easy to befriend the boisterous prince, it was the mischievous second prince that proved to be the biggest challenge.

Loki was a quiet boy with a penchant for tricks and a tongue as sharp as the very daggers he favored. You were an energetic girl with an abundance of curiosity and a habit of speaking your mind. Needless to say, your clashes were legendary.

He found your inability to sit still and focus on a single task frustrating. You found his haughtiness and holier than thou attitude infuriating. Your verbal spars were the talk of the palace, and though Loki had the tendency to walk away when you had bested him in an argument, there would always be a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

In hindsight, he probably enjoyed having someone who could keep up with him.

There were times, however, when the two of you managed to put your differences aside.

For instance, the days he would show you a new spell he learned because ‘no one else can appreciate the art of sorcery quite like you can.’ Any sentimental words were often extinguished with his follow-up threat to turn you into a frog.

Or the time you were so homesick you locked yourself in your chambers and refused to eat for two days. Eventually, you found a book filled with poetry and short stories from Alfheim underneath your door. He denied having anything to do with it, even going as far as to say he wouldn't waste his time on literature filled with such frivolous drivel, but you noticed his uncharacteristic lack of snideness when your feasting returned to its normal frequency. Of course, that particular grace period proved fleeting; by your next appearance in his company, he had returned to his usual caustic self, ready to resume the war of words that was your relationship.

You would not define what you and Loki had as friendship—you didn’t even know if the cunning prince could like anyone save for himself—but there was some kinship there. Something that kept you returning to the challenge that was Loki Odinson.

You trusted him, despite his talent for deception. You liked him, despite his inclination for maliciousness. In his own way, you knew that he reciprocated.

But three weeks and four days had passed since Odin declared your engagement with his eldest son in front of the court and royal family of not only Asgard, but Vanaheim, Alfheim, and several noblemen and women of other realms who traveled to celebrate your union. Three weeks and four days since Loki had last looked you in the eyes or even spoken your name.

Finally, the silver tongue had ceased its poisonous stings. No more clever insults traded or merciless mockery at your expense.

You should have been grateful.

You should have rejoiced at having nothing to sour the good spirits in which you should be in as you neared closer to the time that would mark the rest of your existence.

You weren't.

Gone was the familiar feeling of being challenged. Absent was the usual flare of adrenaline that sparked to life every time you found yourself locked in a duel of words, weapons, or both.

Never in your many years had there ever been an absence as cold as this. Not even the snow-capped peaks of Jotunheim could bring about a chill so biting.

A feminine giggle snaps you from the past and pulls your attention to the current feast where sounds of merriment and conversation are at their most lively.

”He is very handsome, Prince Thor. I have heard some of the other ladies whisper of envy at your good fortune in securing him,” gushes a Vanaheim girl, clearly attempting to coax you into further discussion about your betrothed. Perhaps to stir a bit of gossip to carry home with her.

You are sat at the high table while your husband to be has made himself comfortable mingling around the great hall.

There are nobles and wealthy merchants from all over the nine in attendance, dining and drinking their fill as if their bellies are hollow caverns and their cups never empty.

All manner of activity surrounds you; performers playing music, warriors demonstrating their skill with sword or axe, jovial dancing taking place, and the seemingly unending laughter which floats over all. All typical of any celebratory banquet thrown by Asgardian royalty, which is bound to last until after the official binding ceremony—meaning you have a whole 72 hours of this, at least.

Already you can imagine the tinge of aching at your temples by the time it is over, along with the emptiness of your stomach at having abstained from nearly all the offerings to ensure the voluminous gowns of wedding tradition fit as seamlessly as possible.

“Oh, yes,” another girl jumps into the conversation with fervor, this one seemingly much younger than the first yet still with aged beauty and features to match. You take a slow sip of mead, masking the unamused twitch in your eye as best as you can. “You must feel as if the Norns themselves smiled down and gifted you. He is the dream, is he not?”

So enthusiastic and eager are the pair, you half expect them to reach over and clasp hands to squeal and swoon over your husband to be.

You love Thor, but hearing women fawn over him for the better part of the night was growing wearisome.

Being the dutiful daughter and newly acquired bride of a future king, you temper the urge to snap at them and their vapid prattling. Instead, you grin sweetly as they lean in and vividly await your thoughts.

It takes great effort to remain cordial in tone, but you manage somehow.

“Prince Thor has indeed gifted me with much to be thankful for; he is a truly kind, generous man, and I have only the most optimistic predictions for our future together."

The girls gaze back at you in obvious admiration for a brief moment before excitement replaces it.

“Not to be improper and overly forward, but is it true what they say about him? That he is indeed a generous lover in the bed as well as out of it?”

You are thankful you have set your goblet down, for had you not, you might have dropped it in complete bafflement at the question. Not only for its boldness but mainly for its implication.

You hadn’t considered the possibility that Thor would have had such relations with other women in the years leading up to your engagement, although now it strikes you as quite foolish to have not. After all, it was not unusual or considered improper for men to occasionally indulge in carnal pleasures—not in Asgard, at least.

You, on the other hand, were expected to practice abstinence in such matters, as to preserve your innocence and untarnished virtue until you were officially married. It was an elvish custom, one you only followed because… well, you suppose it had nothing to do with the custom and everything to do with your lack of interest.

When you did not immediately answer, the first girl scoldingly slaps her companion's arm with disappointed admonishment.

"Tis a bit disrespectful to ask such private questions, would you not think?"

The second, however, is unrepentant. Her reply comes quickly and is tinted with playful rebuke.

"Have we not all thought it at least once? Why, even you, Sesi! The tales of him are quite.. ravishing.” She returns her gaze to you, her mischievous expression only then losing some of its cheer at your quiet response. "Oh...I've said the wrong thing. Forgive me, Princess, it was not my intention."

Sheepishly, she tucks her hair behind her ear and shares an uneasy look with whom you now know as Sesi.

Putting a swift end to her discomfort, you laugh. It is high and airy, and is laden with enough mirth to be perceived as genuine. You hope.

“Fret not, darling. Your boldness shall be forgiven and forgotten.”

Except it was most certainly the first and not the second.

You suddenly felt very aware of your inexperience.

In three days' time, you would not only become an official princess of Asgard, but would finally be joined with your betrothed to consummate your union.

Thor would bed you. Thor would see your nakedness. Thor would pleasure you. Thor, who apparently has not lived a prudent life, would bear witness to your lack of experience in just about every area. And not only him, but all those who would attend the ceremony to watch.

Gods, would he compare you? What if the differences between Æsir and elves proves to be so grand that your sexual incompatibility is laughable? What if—

No.

You take another long sip, silencing the flood of overwhelming thoughts with the oncoming burn that soothed your tight throat.

There is no room for such negative thinking. You love Thor. Thor loves you. Your marriage is certain to be a harmonious one.

…but what if you could not satisfy him?

Great.

Just great.

You continue the charade of being lost in polite conversation for another half hour until the two girls scurry off to bother someone else. You only have a few fleeting seconds to breathe before your mother approaches you.

“I do believe you’ve had a touch too much of alcohol this eve, daughter.” She takes the freed seat next to you and eyes the goblet of your fourth fill. Although her tone is only lightly reprimanding, she conveys a look of stern disapproval.

Perhaps she’s right. Your cheeks were flushed with warmth and the slight glaze in your eyes must have betrayed any semblance of sobriety you were hoping to exhibit. But after the conversation you just engaged in, you figured it was well deserved.

Defiantly, you meet your mother's eyes and drain your chalice with several heavy swallows. No longer does she bother with veiling her discontent.

"This is not suitable for a lady of your position to behave. You need to keep your wits about you, lest you unintentionally give off a poor example of how a princess should act,” her voice, barely more than a whisper, is strict in its scolding.

Whether or not it was for your own sake or her image, you did not know. Your tongue grows sharper at that.

“Did you also lecture Prince Thor on the manner in which he chooses to behave? Last I saw, he was deep within his own cups and singing along to a very uncouth song with Volstagg.” You nod towards the center of the feast where you can spot both aforementioned individuals hollering raucously, but your mother's focus does not stray from you.

Maybe she did not deserve to be dealt the tongue that so quickly responded with animosity. Yes, she could be controlling at times, but you did love her fiercely. Still, when you spoke, it was without thinking. It always has been.

The alcohol only acted as the spark to light the fire.

She deeply sighed. “Be that as it may, a prince's behavior is far from what is expected of a princess.” She softens, ever so slightly, and gently rests a hand upon your own that sits atop the table. You almost want to pull away and further distance yourself, but it feels a waste to ruin the small gesture with more childish obstinacy. "Something has put you in poor spirits of late, I have noticed.”

And for the first time that night, you crack and release the sigh that had been building for the better part of three hours.

Three weeks and four days.

Truthfully, your foul mood could not entirely be blamed on gossip. Of course, that was the proverbial icing atop the cake, but underneath all its sugary layers lurked a more bitter component.

Loki.

It was so childish, to actually miss the anger and constant, ceaseless baiting. But his departure from the norm brought about an unusual feeling of emptiness. It were as if something was so fundamentally missing in your life.

Your eyes do not lift to her face as the explanation internally unfurls itself.

Suddenly, a pointed finger presses into the sensitive space beneath your chin and forces your head upward. Your mother gazes down at you with a steely expression, not allowing escape from the lock she has ensnared you in.

“Is this about the wedding? Is that the cause of this rather abrupt melancholy?"

Your brows furrow and you instinctively recoil.

“What—of course not!” So strong and fervent was your exclamation, a handful of revelers briefly look to the direction of your table. Instinctively, you lower your voice, aware of the watchful eyes that turn back to their previous interests. "No, that isn't—”

“Because if that is the case, you mustn't worry. In time, you will be completely at ease with your role. And if not… well, you must learn to work through your discomfort or, at the very least, ignore it completely.” The words are cold and cutting. Not a shred of tenderness seeps through, but her touch remains gentle. "Your union with the prince will bring Alfheim the opportunities it has so long dreamed of achieving. This is about more than you, dear."

A long silence stretches over you, your eyes unblinkingly affixed on your mother's, who displays the same intensity.

It dawns on you how naïve you've been, thinking that anything aside from what serves the realm of Alfheim's interest was of any care to her. She is a queen, after all.

She could not have been farther from the truth, but the lack of motherly concern felt like a kick to the gut nonetheless.

Really, the only doubts you had were directed toward your capabilities as Thor's partner. His lover. Not once did you consider being anything less than a satisfactory wife.

Instead of addressing it, or even deeming the topic worthy of discussion, you just nod wordlessly.

Your gaze subconsciously flit across the room, where you spot Thor now dancing a wild, flail-filled number with lady Sif. His laughter easily carries through the space, boisterous and energetic, as her infectious merriment could be felt by all.

They had always been close, those two. There had even been a time in their youth, when their closeness was considered suspect, that Thor admitted to kissing her. He claimed, however, that it did nothing to ignite even the smallest amount of desire. Now, though, watching the two dance around one another and occasionally steal looks filled with what you could perceive as intimate familiarity, you wondered.

Maybe it was the alcohol or the ever pleasant conversation with those vanaheim girls that was fueling this current line of thought, but you couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever lain with Sif.

With a heavy sigh, you push your chair away and rise to your feet.

"Forgive me, but maybe I have indulged myself too much tonight after all. I wish to retire for the night.. Please, pass my sincerest apologies to the royal family.”

She searches your face, likely contemplating the validity of the excuse, but you are gone and weaving through the crowd before she has the chance to respond.

***

You had intended to head straight for your quarters, to fall upon the comfort of your bed and sleep away the doubt and displeasure that blanketed your mind.

What you hadn’t planned on was getting sidetracked and landing yourself outside the door of someone else's.

Especially not Loki's.

You blame it on the influence of drink that is coursing through your body. It must be the alcohol, for otherwise, you would not be anxiously wringing your hands and trying to get up the nerve to knock.

A large inhale does nothing to quell the nervousness, but your fingers are able to reach the solid oak and rap upon the door with a quiet 'pat pat pat.'

Immediately, you begin to doubt the rationality of coming here. What where you even thinking, showing up unannounced? What do you hope to gain from this visit, aside from an uncomfortable exchange and your own embarrassment?

Stupid, stupid.

After several seconds of complete stillness and utter silence, you make the quick decision to leave. It would be for the best.

One foot is just barely stepping backward when the door swings wide and you freeze mid-motion, caught like a frightened little deer by piercing green eyes.

As soon as you see him, standing there in nothing more than his silk green robe with his hair loose and splayed over his shoulders, you immediately wish to turn and run away as fast and far as you can. But your feet seem to be stuck, frozen much like your lungs.

An exasperated exhale serve as his first greeting. "You do realize the lateness of the hour, do you not?"

Your response is sheepish and floundering. "Yes. Of course.. I only—Well, no actually—you weren't present at dinner tonight—"

He quirks an eyebrow up, waiting for your words to connect with coherent meaning.

"—and I wanted to check in on you."

That earned a deep, grating chuckle that only adds to the already prevalent warmth creeping across your face.

“Check in on me. How noble. Pray tell, what has put you in such a charitable mood?"

You decide to meet the obvious ridicule with honesty. "You have been avoiding me.”

It was said simply, without malice and more like a child delivering a simple declaration that the grass was green. He stiffens a little, but his features remain impressively unbothered.

“Poor thing. Did you miss my presence all that terribly?"

"Do not patronize me,” comes your annoyed retort, with far too little effort for your liking. "Tell my why you have been behaving so oddly.”

“Your pardon, princess, but I believe the one behaving oddly is you—barging into someone else's chambers this late in the night and uninvited no less." He narrows his eyes at you accusingly.

"Loki—”

“So, tell me—where is Thor? Surely, he wouldn't condone his precious betrothed fleeing her own celebration to seek out another man's chamber, much less that of his… brother."

He nearly sneers out the last word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but you don’t quite understand the reason behind the reaction.

“I am my own woman. I need not inform him or seek his permission every time I wish to do something,” you point out heatedly. “Not that what you are insinuating is even true.”

That earns you a cocky smile, a small tick of the corner of his mouth.

“Are you not standing before my door, seeking my company?"

"You are missing the point on purpose."

His face smooths into something less hostile but also unreadable. You fold your arms over your chest and attempt not to feel vulnerable under the heavy scrutiny that is Loki's stare.

"Very well," he finally concedes, stepping away from the threshold in a mock welcoming gesture. "By all means, come in."

You visibly hesitate.

Sure, you hadn’t exactly had a plan when coming here, but at least what small degree of one you did possess included the certainty that it would remain at the doorway, out in the open halls of the palace.

Despite yourself, you step forward. The door shuts with an echoing 'click' as soon as you clear the entrance.

You take a moment to glance about the room—at anything other than the god standing mere inches away from your back—and note how uncomfortably personal the place feels.

It is spacious, like most of the royal living quarters, but filled to the brim with a miscellany of various trinkets, books, maps, and artifacts. Much different, you note, from the comfortable simplicity that is Thor's quarters.

There are shelves upon shelves of books. Many appear to be magical tomes of spells, enchantments, and runes while the others are fiction filled with adventure and lore. All seem equally worn.

"Should I offer you something to drink or shall we forego such formalities," comes Loki's voice, much closer now.

You swiftly turn back around to face him and his familiar snide smile.

"I have already had more than enough,” you admit.

"That would explain your decision to grace me with your company on this most delightful evening." His condescending tone is an annoyance, but his sarcasm is familiar. To your horror, comfortingly so.

You wonder again how foolish coming here was

“Or maybe I am not fond of being avoided?" You deflect his underlying accusation.

“Attention, you truly do thrive for it. I always believed so."

The witticism is delivered dryly. You scoff.

"How ironic, coming from you," you snap.

He says nothing at first, lips pursed in silent contemplation.

"So this is what your true purpose for coming is then: to quarrel with me." His face contorts back into one of amused wonder, and he clasps his hands behind his back. "Have you missed our games, princess?"

You open your mouth, ready to strike, but quickly pause when you actually stop to consider the validity of the accusation. Had you?

There is a glint in his eyes when your momentary hesitation proves to him that you, in fact, have.

“Ah—So you did."

"No." The denial is too hurried and strained for credibility, but you make the attempt, nonetheless.

He doesn’t miss a beat. "Do remember who you are attempting to deceive.

The God of Lies.

You huff and drop onto a cushioned sofa by the grand fireplace, your posture finally relaxing after what seems like days of perpetual tightness.

He does the same and sits adjacent on a second loveseat.

In his natural element, it was difficult to ignore his handsomeness. You couldn’t recall ever seeing him like this—hair loosely swaying over his shoulders, thin night robes draped and fitted to his slender body, looking disarmingly unlike the battle-hardened prince you had come to know.

It was an unsettling thought to have, one you again blamed on the drinks.

You avert your eyes quickly, keeping them focused anywhere else. The flickering fire is a good choice.

“Can you just tell me the reason for your behaviour these past weeks," you ask.

There is a long, strained pause—almost too long—before he responds, carefully.

"I simply have better things to tend to," he answers dismissively. "Thor’s political entanglements bore me. My apologies for not sharing in your enthusiasm for them."

"Better things," you deadpan skeptically, finally turning to face him. "Such as—?”

His lips twitch into the ghost of a smile.

"Scheming. Plotting. Taking down the universe..."

You roll your eyes at his facetiousness.

He continues, this time more serious. "Why would I wish to attend events which serve only to praise Thor and celebrate his success? The tedium would suffocate me."

Of course. How had you not thought of that before? You had witnessed firsthand over the course of your youth, his discomfort at being overshadowed. His bitterness at constantly falling short, his scorn toward his brother's prideful boasting.

It all made sense.

You cast your head down and feel your previous anger and frustration abate. The room is suddenly filled with thick awkwardness.

"I am sorry. I didn't even consider—"

“Oh spare me. Save such gushing sentimentality for the oaf."

A silence falls heavily upon the room, the weight of which almost seems physical.

Your eyes are avert once more as you are once again left unsure of what to do. Never had the two of you sat together in such quiet stillness. It was odd, unnatural.

Unpleasant.

Eventually, after what seemed like ages, his voice cut in.

"I answered your question, I believe it is your turn to answer mine."

You say nothing, waiting.

“Why, out of all nights, do you seek my company on the one in which you are expected to partake in feasting and celebrating?”

You shift uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny.

"I was not feeling well and decided it best to retire early.”

Another lie.

You don’t have to see his face to know he knows. You know because you know him. He is too clever and too aware, and as he had pointed out earlier, too skilled at deception himself to not see right through your poor attempts at it.

“Liar,” he whispers, deep and drawn out.

Shame coils in your belly when you can not find it within yourself to argue. You purse your lips and say nothing.

“Your face is as warm as the flames you have so dutifully gazed upon for the past five minutes,” he points out smugly. "Go on, then—what ails your heart?"

'Nothing,' is what you want to respond, but the syllables do not come forth.

This so clearly catches his interest, as he leans forward in his seat, watching you expectantly.

"Are you unhappy, perchance," he queries after some time. A teasing, amused undertone colors his words. "Has the prospect of spending eternity with Thor begun to finally sink in? As does any reasonable woman in her right mind, has the dullard become dull to you? Tell me, is the sun becoming dimmer the longer you look?"

You could not believe what you were hearing.

"What?" You shake your head in disbelief of his ridiculous claims. You are growing tired of everyone assuming how you feel—what you desire, think, hate. It is maddening. "No, that is not it at all. How could you say—why would I..?”

He barely reacts.

“I could stop it, if you so wished. Think about it—little elven harlot ignoring her duty to drunkenly stumble into the youngest prince's private chambers—"

“Loki.. stop—”

“—yearning for the kind of attention her betrothed could never offer her. Seducing him in his vulnerable, unsuspecting state. The scandal would be considered so grand my father would have no choice but to annul your engagement.”

You shoot out of your seat at his words, your teeth gritted together so tight the ache radiates up through the bone and makes your ears ring.

He remains seated, face the portrait of unaffected nonchalance.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I am offering you an out. I, for one, would not mind sending you realms away.”

His cavalier response infuriates you all the more.

“I left the celebration because I did not feel like hearing of Thor’s intimate escapades by every lady present!” You finally snap, your voice shrill in both volume and pitch. A confession that, upon seeing the sudden mirth that consumes his smug, stupid face, was one you immediately wished to take back.

“Careful, your envy is showing."

If you could murder with the force of your glare, he would not exist.

“I am not envious of such things."

His eyebrow quirks.

"No," he drags out in that same infuriating way, tinged with absolute glee. "Which is why you retired early in hopes to escape all the details of such escapades, as you so graciously put it."

The longer you look at him—see the clear, vicious delight written all over his face—the stronger the urge to commit treason grows. How you would love nothing more than to wrap your fingers about his slender, pale throat and squeeze.

“Wanting to avoid those details does not indicate jealousy!” You argue, in which he gives a nod so condescending you want to break his nose.

“Oh, perhaps, jealousy was not the correct word. Shall we amend to lividness instead?"

You don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, although your silence and reddened cheeks were undoubtedly fueling it all the same.

“I would argue it unwise to marry someone who is so open—boastful, even—about his sexual adventures when you are so easily made uncomfortable."

Even talking about this subject was enough to make you want to crawl beneath the ground and remain there until the end of time, and discussing it with Loki seemed even worse.

“I am not jealous. I just..” You trail off helplessly.

“..you just?”

"It is foolish," you murmur, unsure why you even want to finish the thought.

“All the more reason to be heard."

You feel sickened that you actually want to say what comes next, and really, you have no valid reason or justification.

Only that your mind was flooded by a haze of ale and bad judgment.

"I’ve never… I mean, I haven’t even…"

You expect him to tease you in the merciless way he has always teased you—expect the nasty mockery at your shamefully chaste background. But he only blinks slowly at you, completely quiet, so unlike the Loki you are familiar with.

After several awkward beats, you finish your stilted sentence.

"I have not lain with anyone, nor kissed anyone," you continue, albeit very quietly.

Finally, his lips twitch.

“Now there's a shock."

"I should leave."

You make your way for the door quickly, refusing to look his way again lest the floor swallow you up, but your foot barely has time to cross the threshold when he magically transports himself from the loveseat and behind you, his large hand slamming against the door frame before you can even touch the handle.

You whip around, facing him in equal parts surprise and anger at the barrier.

“How dare—"

Whatever insults you were hoping to hurl are lost to a flustered stammer when you notice how close he is to your body, a hairbreadth's distance separating you.

“You are worried about your upcoming bedding ceremony. That is it, isn't it? You know not if you will be able to... please, him?” He moves away a fraction as if suddenly remembering himself. "Innocent little thing that you are, no doubt terrified that my brother will find fault in your performance.”

It felt as if you had swallowed a rock.

He smiles coldly.

"That is what truly keeps you from indulging in tonight's celebrations. Imagine, all those eyes watching, scrutinizing your every move—looking for any flaw. Any chance for gossip and disapproval." He leans forward. "You are worried you will fail."

“You know nothing," you manage weakly. It didn’t even sound convincing to yourself.

You open the door just enough to slip through the slim opening, but once again you are stopped in your tracks.

It was not by physical means or magical trickery this time; rather, it was the sound of his next sentence and its implications.

"I could teach you."

Everything around you grinds to a standstill.

Did he just..?

Is he.. suggesting..?

Slowly, you turn around.

"Teach me?" Your mouth was dry, and the words tasted ashen.

There is that devious glimmer in his eyes, the one that spells trouble. The same one that had danced there countless times before; except now the tides were shifting and the context was... different.

This had to be some sort of joke.

Yet his expression was as genuine as you had ever seen him.

“You are to be wed in three days time. That is three days to teach you all you will need to know," he states, calm as the stillest pool of water, but there was a hungry quality there that made your skin crawl.

All you could manage in response is a measly:

"Why?"

If you had learned anything, it was that Loki did everything with the hope to gain. And oblivious as you could be at times, you did not see the benefit here, aside from his own obvious amusement. But he could find amusement anywhere.

The answer he gave was one that caused a strange reaction. Your stomach twisted and knotted itself, and your lungs became devoid of air.

"If not for the satisfaction to have something meant for my brother and my brother alone?”

He takes a deliberate step forward, and despite yourself—despite being in the openness of the palace corridors and despite all common sense and reason—you don't move back.

A feathery light touch starts from the very tip of your finger and slides its way up to the very top of your shoulder.

It was soft.

Deceitfully, dangerously, so.

Then, he leans in, and in the most sickeningly sensual of voices says:

“To fuck the lifelong hatred from your eyes and ruin you so thoroughly, so completely, that your miserable existence becomes centered upon the memory of me alone. To know that no matter how much love your marriage may bring, I shall always be a bitter thorn lodged deep into your tender side. A reminder of a filthy secret and an irrefutable fact—that no one can make you feel the way that I, the person you hold in contempt, once made you feel."

You watch with wide-eyes as he strokes your jaw.

“That is why."

You had never fled from something so fast, no less something so inviting and so wrongfully appealing.

[jadekillian]

BAD GIRLS WATCH

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝘆𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗲𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗖𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗸𝘀. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗱𝗼, 𝘁𝗼𝗼. 𝗜𝗻 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀, 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁, 𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗯𝗼𝘆 𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗷𝗼𝗶𝗻.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗦𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲 𝗥𝗼𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘀/𝗳𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿/𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆, 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝟯.𝟮𝗸

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗮 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝘄𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗲. 𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗹𝘀.

Loki circled the room, his arms folded and his mouth set in a thin, hard line. The sound of his boots was muffled by the heavy carpet, but each footfall seemed to hammer at your already-frayed nerves.

You were kneeling at the edge of his bed, knees separated and sunk into soft, emerald velvet—the same color as the silk ropes that bound your hands and kept them locked behind your straightened back.

Also on the bed, directly across from you, was none other than Steven Rogers, the famed Captain America himself. His stance mirrored your own, but his eyes were downcast and his cheeks were stained a bright pink.

He always was the shy one, even after months of being with both you and Loki. It was one of the many things you and the God of Mischief loved about him.

Loki paused in front of you, and you felt the intense gaze of his bright green eyes on your exposed skin. You did not look up at him; instead, you kept your head down and your attention focused on the floor.

He chuckled, low and dark. Soon enough, you felt his hand slip under your chin to lift it up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“What is it, pet? Not feeling very talkative anymore?” His lips curved in a small smile, but the look in his eyes was the opposite of gentle. He was not pleased. “I do wonder where all that defiance went. All that bravado and snark you showed me during Stark’s party just minutes ago... gone.”

Despite yourself, you glared.

You had been dressed in a stunning gown, the kind that clung to every curve and shimmered under the lights like diamonds. The same gown that now lay forgotten in a crumpled pile near the door.

It was supposed to have been a simple celebration, something for the Avengers to attend, drink and unwind. And it had been, at first. You were able to enjoy the lavish food, dance with your boyfriends and laugh along with your teammates.

But those type of gatherings always grew boring as the night wore on, and as per routine, you found yourself looking for something—anything—that could entertain you. Even if that something meant pushing the buttons of a certain Norse god until he snapped.

“I mean, honestly, what were you hoping to accomplish? Did you think it wise to provoke me? To embarrass me, in front of those pathetic humans and my fool of a brother?”

He was angry, yes, but not only that. He was aroused. It was obvious by the way he was breathing, slow and deliberate. The way his fingers were gripping your jaw a little tighter than they needed to be.

He leaned down until his mouth was just inches from yours. The heat of his breath beat against your face, the faint scent of wine tickling your nose.

“Did you really think I would stand idly by and allow such an offense to go unpunished?”

No, your brain responded. Of course not. In fact, you had been counting on quite the opposite. You were a ‘glutton for punishment’, both Loki and Steve often said. And they were right.

There was something so exhilarating about making Loki angry. Because no matter how soft and gentle he was with you, no matter how much he cared for you and Steve, there was a part of him that would always be the God of Mischief. The part of him that loved nothing more than to cause chaos and trouble. And when you made him angry, that part was let loose. And you couldn't get enough of it.

Feeling bold, you flicked your tongue out and licked his bottom lip. Weaving your voice with a bit of innocence, you said, "Tied up and at your mercy. I am having trouble seeing the 'punishment' in this."

He pulled away, and for a brief moment you saw the slightest hint of surprise on his face. But the emotion vanished, and the smile returned.

Loki turned his attention to Steve, who was still avoiding eye contact. "Did you hear that, Steve? Our pet thinks she is being rewarded."

"Yes, sir." Steve's response was immediate, and the words seemed to tumble from his lips without thought.

"And what do you think, my love?" Loki reached out and brushed his knuckles along the man's cheek. The touch was featherlight, and Steve leaned into it. “Do you believe her actions warrant a reward?"

The blond finally lifted his gaze, and you were greeted with those stunning blue eyes that never failed to make your heart skip. Guilt and desire danced within their depths, and his next words were filled with nothing but shame.

"N-No, sir."

You felt your insides clench. He could always count on Steve to play the good, obedient boy.

"And why is that?"

“Because she… she was bad?” Steve hesitated, unsure if he was using the right words.

Always so innocent, even after all this time. Shy where you were brash. Gentle where you were rough. It was no wonder why Loki enjoyed torturing him as much as he enjoyed tormenting you. Except in Steve's case, the torment was more along the lines of teasing words and coaxing him to break out of his shell.

“Yes, that is right." Loki's fingers moved down Steve's neck, and a visible shudder coursed through the super soldier's body. “But not you, my sweet boy. You have been behaving quite nicely this evening."

Your eyes dropped to Steve’s cock, which was already at full attention. The head was flushed and glistening, and you had to resist the urge to crawl forward and take it in your mouth.

It was almost a crime, you thought, how attractive the man was. Not a single ounce of attention to his poor neglected dick yet he was already a twitching, quivering mess.

As if he read your mind, Loki circled the bed until he stood behind the other man. His hand slid down the muscular chest, farther and farther until his long fingers wrapped around Steve's thick length.

Steve moaned. His hips bucked forward, thrusting his cock into Loki's hand. The action earned him a slap to the thigh, causing him to immediately freeze.

"Keep still," Loki demanded, his tone firmer. "If you move again, I will stop. Do you understand?"

A whine slipped from Steve's lips. "Yes, sir."

In slow, lazy strokes, Loki pumped Steve's cock. Up and down, up and down, his hand moving at a pace so agonizingly slow that Steve's breaths became ragged.

Always so responsive. So sensitive.

"So eager," Loki purred, unintentionally finishing your thought. He turned his gaze to you, his thumb smearing a drop of precum over the tip. "I can feel him pulsing in my hand. Can you see it, darling?"

You could. It was a subtle thing, the way his cock twitched and throbbed every time Loki twisted his wrist just right. The way the thick vein on the underside of his shaft became more pronounced as his arousal grew.

It was maddening.

Your own sex clenched with want. Your thighs were slick with your juices, and your nipples had hardened to stiff peaks.

You wanted to be touched. You needed to be touched. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Not yet.

You tried to press your thighs together for some sort of friction, but the movement did not go unnoticed.

Loki’s eyes narrowed, and he tightened his grip around the base of Steve's cock. A strangled moan tore from the blonde's lips, a sound so raw and needy that it made your stomach flutter.

“This is what a true reward looks like. Pure, unadulterated pleasure. My attention solely focused on the one person who is not being a brat." He paused, and a wicked grin stretched across his face. "I do believe he needs visual stimulation.”

You clenched your jaw, trying not to look too irritated. You knew exactly where this was going.

“Open them. Allow him to see your neglected cunt, wet and wanting.”

“No,” you said, the word slipping out before you could stop it. You hated how it sounded, how weak and breathless it was.

You squeezed your legs tighter together, desperately attempting to get a few more seconds of friction. Because it did not matter how defiant you acted, how stubborn you were—Loki would eventually get what he wanted.

"I believe that was not a request."

Steve groaned. His head fell forward, eyes half-lidded and dazed. "Please," he whispered.

Whether his plea was directed towards you or Loki, you weren't sure. Either way, it was the final straw.

As if invisible strings were pulling your limbs, your thighs opened, exposing the swollen, glistening flesh between. Loki's magic, forcing you to obey.

A choked whimper left Steve's mouth.

"Oh, what a sight." Loki leaned forward and rested his chin on Steve's shoulder. "You are not here for your own enjoyment, pet. You are here for his. This is his reward, after all."

It suddenly dawned on you just exactly how Loki planned to punish you.

Withdrawal.

Denial.

It would be an exquisite form of torture.

"Look at her," Loki murmured. "No more than an armslength away, yet her weeping little quim is still untouched. Still aching. And all because she decided to play a foolish game."

You didn't say anything. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, and a wave of frustration washed over you. This was not how things were supposed to go.

"She would have you inside her right this instant if she could. Such a shame that she is not allowed the privilege."

Bastard.

"Sir..."

Loki continued, unfazed by Steve's plea. "But you.. You will get what you desire. What is it you want, my sweet?"

Steve's throat bobbed, and he swallowed thickly. "I want..." He trailed off, struggling to find his words.

"Be honest," Loki said. "Speak your mind."

It was permission enough, and Steve spoke again, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"I want to feel her." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"What was that?" Loki cocked his head to the side. "I'm afraid I did not hear you."

You were almost positive the God of Mischief knew exactly what Steve had said, and was merely toying with him.

"I-I want to feel her. Her..."

Silence stretched out between the three of you, and then,

"Her cunt." Loki supplied, and you didn't miss how Steve's cock jerked at the word, nor how his face grew several shades darker. "Such a crude word, isn't it? Yet, I believe it is the perfect term for what lies between her legs. Why don't you say it?"

Steve's Adam's apple bobbed again. His lips parted, but nothing came out.

"Come now, Steve." Loki's tone was gentle. Coaxing. Underneath, though, was a hint of demand. He got off on this, pushing Steve's limits. "You have satisfied me thus far. Why stop now?"

The Captain took a deep breath.

"I want to feel her cu- her cunt."

"yes," Loki purred, and the praise was enough to make Steve's skin flush. "Now, ask me. Ask me if you can have her. And be polite."

You watched, completely enraptured by the scene before you. Your pulse pounded in your ears, and your core throbbed in time with the beat.

Steve lifted his head. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with arousal. He locked eyes with you, and you were sure you would have melted under the heat of that gaze.

The captain America everyone knew, the perfect hero and paragon of virtue and justice, gone. Replaced with this. A man completely drunk off pleasure. Knowing that you and Loki were the only two people to ever witness him in such a state, it was something you held close.

"May I... may I have her?" A pause, then a broken 'Please.'

Yes, you silently begged, as if Loki could hear your thoughts. Please.

Loki clicked his tongue.

"No."

Your stomach sank, and you felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over your head.

"N-No?" Steve stuttered. He turned his head, his confusion apparent.

"No." Loki's fingers danced up and down the length of Steve's cock, the featherlight touches surely driving him mad. "You said it yourself. She has not behaved."

"I—" Steve stopped, his brows knitting together. You could see the gears turning in his head. Spoiled thing that he was, he wasn't used to being denied. "But... you said this was a reward."

"And it is."

"But—"

"Steven."

The name, spoken with a hint of warning, silenced Steve instantly.

You could almost see the battle taking place in his mind, but any thought was cut short when Loki grabbed his chin and tilted his head back. Their mouths met, a messy kiss that was all tongues and teeth and pure, unrestrained desire.

A whimper tore from your throat, and you weren't sure if it was out of jealousy or the fact that your core ached with an almost painful need.

They looked absolutely beautiful together.

And they were both yours.

"Lo," you whined, hoping the nickname would win you some sympathy. It was a manipulative tactic, sure, but it usually worked. This time, however, Loki did not even glance in your direction. Instead, his lips curved up against Steve's, and you had the feeling he was smiling.

The two of them broke apart, their chests rising and falling as they sucked in ragged breaths.

Loki’s own erection was straining against his pants, the material clinging to his form in a way that was nothing less than sinful. You would have loved nothing more than to peel those pants off and run your tongue along every inch of his pale skin, but, considering you were still tied up, the odds of that happening were slim.

Who were you kidding? They were next to none.

“You are an asshole,” you growled, quickly falling out of the sweet act in record time.

Loki raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. Like a wolf dressed in a sheep's clothing.

"Am I?"

"Yes!"

A brief glimpse of that sardonic smile flitted across his features. "My, such a filthy mouth you have tonight, darling. Maybe I should remedy that."

Your gaze softened and your head tipped up, just slightly. Hopeful and expectant.

Anticipating.

Loki was a deceitful god, but he never lied to you. Especially when it came to punishment. There would be no chance he allowed you pleasure tonight, but maybe..

Maybe he would allow you to stuff your mouth with cock instead. At this point, humiliating as it was, you didn't give a damn which one delivered it.

But your hopes were dashed when he continued, "On second thought, that might not be a good idea. I believe I have one better."

You threw him an irritated look, followed by an even more unamused, "And what would that be?"

He did not answer right away. Instead, his attention moved to Steve, whose mouth was agape in awe. His pace quickened. Long, full strokes, from base to tip and down again. A flick of the wrist here, a teasing squeeze there, and, on occasion, Loki's thumb smeared beads of precum over the head and down the shaft.

Moans and whimpers and breathless little gasps filled the air.

God, how you longed to touch him. Both of them.

He was close. You knew his body well enough to spot all the indicators. The way it tightened and coiled before release. The way his brow knit together and his face twisted in an agonized expression that was a mixture of pure euphoria and pain. Occasionally, his hips would twitch, as if he were fighting the urge to thrust forward and meet the steady motion of Loki's fist.

“He is going to make a mess soon." Loki's voice was calm, the words spoken in a languid drawl. As if they were discussing the weather. "And if you behave yourself, I will allow you to clean my hand afterwards."

Fuck.

You could feel tears gathering in your eyes. Your own arousal was still burning, screaming for release, but it was buried under the absolute frustration at not being allowed to have that particular treat.

Never have you felt so needy in your life.

‘Fuck you,’ you wanted to scream. Or, at the very least, a creative string of words laced with insults and curses. Words so vulgar, you were quite certain if Steve heard them in a casual setting, he would have scolded you like a petulant child.

But the retort died on your tongue, swallowed down along with the lingering bits of your dignity. Desperate as it may be, you wanted at least a morsel of what you were being denied.

"Are you ready, my sweet?" Loki asked. It was, again, directed towards Steve, but the question made your back straighten, nonetheless.

“Yes." Another gasped response. The word was barely audible over the slick, wet sound of Loki's hand. “Yes, please, I-I'm going to..."

He didn't get to finish the sentence. Steve's body quickly began to spasm and twitch. Thick ropes of milky-white cum painted his stomach and coated Loki's fingers, making a mess exactly as Loki had predicted.

You did not miss the way Loki’s free hand dove into Steve's hair, nor the gentle praise whispered to him.

You squirmed in your position.

You’ve never felt envy like this before. Your body was clouded with frustratingly light phantom sensations—as if his orgasm was powerful enough to reach you, too. Only ten steps away, and there was no soothing touch, no relief.

When the last tremor subsided, Loki pulled away and lifted his hand to your face, displaying your prize. Meanwhile, Steve's eyes dropped shut and he sagged, panting softly. If not for Loki's magic encasing his body in a light green mist, you were sure he would have collapsed onto the bed.

"Open."

Any last semblance of resistance crumbled in that moment. When his fingers touched your lips, they automatically parted. Eager, willing.

The bittersweet taste of your lover would be the only pleasure you would have tonight. You intended to enjoy every second of it.

You lapped at the fluid, devouring it like a an animal and savoring it as you would a five-star dessert. Gentle, cat-like laps up and down the length of his fingers and between each digit.

Loki hummed, a look of lazy, heavy satisfaction on his face. "You look absolutely exquisite, eating from my hand like this. Why can't you always behave so well? We could have had fun tonight, the three of us."

You didn't respond, too occupied to form a coherent word.

The admiration in his gaze, the delight... You were trapped, a deer in the headlights.

By the time he pulled away, his hand was nearly clean, and you desperately wanted to lean forward and follow it.

His eyebrows rose, and the corner of his lips twitched. You sat back obediently, but you couldn't stop staring at that drop of white on his thumb.

Your gaze did not go unnoticed, and the swoosh of his belt coming undone drew your attention.

“Oh, darling..” He licked his lips, and, oh god, that smile—half-amused, half-smug, and teasing all at once. “Don’t look so dejected. There is still more for you to earn."

[jadekillian]

….

[jadekillian]

free my girl she did the same things as the celebrated male protagonists but the fandom has labeled her irredeemable