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mischieflieshere · 1 month ago

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Part 4 did not disappoint and like I said on the last one I am ecstatic for the next part.

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 𝘀𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆, 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.

#tag me?#fic

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mischieflieshere · 1 month ago

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tom hiddleston’s forearms. reblog if you agree.

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mischieflieshere · 1 month ago

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aaaaaaaHHHHHHHH

“Some years ago my brother was banished from Asgard, and sent to Earth. And when he came back he was different. Changed somehow. I thought it was weakness. I mocked him. Said he’d gone soft.” - LOKI 2x04 HEART OF THE TVA

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mischieflieshere · 1 month ago

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Absolutely stunning 🔥

#art

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mischieflieshere · 2 months ago

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mischieflieshere · 2 months ago

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Holy shit???? This is the best thing ever.

A Cheap Trick Called Shame

Chapter 1 / Read on AO3

Loki has a plan. A twelve step plan to woo both you and the world (in that order). Unfortunately, he neglects to communicate any of this to you. Chaos ensues. Or: you have a plan. A plan that involves brute-forcing Loki into admitting that he likes you. Unfortunately, you're a witch with a limited grasp on your powers. Chaos ensues. Or: Tony is a very, very good friend, even when he doesn't want to be.

18+ NSFW / fem reader

Loki Laufeyson is all sharp lines. From the slope of his nose to the flat plane of his chest, there is not an edge to him that has not been filed to a point. Even in moments of relaxation, his muscles strain under a skin stretched too thin, hinting at a terrible, jagged restlessness. He is a weapon ground down on a whetstone, which he makes no effort to hide.

The first time you saw Loki – in person, not in a gossip rag or in a pixelated profile on a screen – he towered over the shape of some would-be tyrant, his boot pressed firmly to the soft spot under their skull. It was your first real mission – that is to say, the first one to incur sizable property damage. You hadn’t even seen the action, relegated to keeping civilians safe and handling minor set-backs while Thor and his brother ran point. So the fun was already over, and the bad guy defeated by the time you arrived. Everyone else was celebrating another job well done except for Loki, who watched the enemy wriggle as a cat does a mouse – with a detached curiosity, his mouth whetted for dinner.

Loki occupies a nebulous middle-ground that is becoming increasingly common: justifiably revered while equally reviled. Not quite an Avenger, but not quite not. Too great an asset to lose to a grudge. He is never trusted with important information, or access to your private chats, or even a room beyond the hoteling spaces offered in the Avengers Compound. There are some who will likely never forgive him for New York, and others who watched him crash-land a ship full of refugees with his brother and have decided to put their faith in that Loki.

Your staring drew his attention eventually. Preternatural in nature and so hungry; his eyes licked up every soft, human curve until he reached your eyes.

Steve had hauled the enemy up by his scruff, vibranium shackles in hand. Steve was soft – round muscle and sweetheart eyes. The kind of quiet that's assertive. Next to Loki, he seemed comically kind.

Loki took one step forward – or did you? – and then another, until you were near enough to speak. “You’re new,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You’re a witch .”

You were turned dumb by his eyes. They were such a bright green – expressive, sparkling things, framed by a dark hedging of lashes and little creases at the corners. How much did he smile, you wondered, to carve lines in an immortal face? “Yes.”

He didn’t say much else. Only grinned, and pulled his gloves off finger by finger. A crowd was forming and the sound of a hundred shutters going off all at once drowned out the silence of battle. People were yelling. Loki kept looking.

Steve pulled him away by the collar. “Enough schmoozing, Loki. Too public.”

“Shaking hands is the polite way to greet someone on Midgard, is it not?”

“Loki,” Steve had deadpanned. “You and I both know that you weren’t just going to shake her hand.”

Someone like Loki flirted for fun. Looked people in the eyes just to watch them go numb with wanting. Grinned – resplendent despite his terrible arrogance – because he knew they would cave and let him in no matter how evil he was.

But this didn’t feel like a joke. Loki looked back at you over his shoulder, towed away by his epaulettes, and his smile was genuine.

In the present, you stand on a balcony overlooking the Avengers Compound’s quad. The sun has set but the air is still warm; June has been kind so far, it's days rarely so hot that you have to hide inside.

Loki didn’t join you until everyone else went to bed. He does this a lot – avoids detection. It sometimes strikes you as odd, considering how quick Loki is to hog the spotlight, but you imagine the public eye can get tiresome even for someone as naturally egotistical as him. Or maybe he’s just embarrassed by your human-ness. Either way, spending time with him is a pleasure you’ll accept regardless of his intentions.

“Careful.” Loki is sin incarnate, pouring himself over your shoulder to offer you his mystery drink. “This is very powerful.”

“What will it do to me?”

“Enslave you to my every desire?” He leans against the bannister, cheek-to-shoulder, and watches you with the slightest slouch.

“Is that right?” You raise it just high enough to get a taste; it’s sharply floral and leaves your mouth feeling sticky, like you’ve swallowed corn syrup. Unlike earthly alcohol it doesn’t burn, but it does leave behind a strange itch in your sinuses.

“You Midgardians have no self-preservation skills.”

“I think you’re just slipping,” you counter. “So much for enslaving.”

There’s some sort of film collecting at the bottom of the glass, a thin pink sheen left behind as the dregs dry.

“Nothing? Not wooed by my charm, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Hmmph. Rude. You could at least pretend to fawn over me. It’s the polite thing to do, you know.”

You hear a rustle from the bushes to your left. You pay it no mind but Loki freezes, and his hand pulls away from your arm stiffly. His shadow splits from his feet and storms toward the planters; there is a short protest, and then an expensive looking camera arcs through the air into Loki’s waiting hand. A ruddy-faced man stands, brushing detritus from his shirt.

“Pervert,” Loki growls.

“Everyone’s fully clothed.”

“Tch.” Loki pulls the camera apart – not with his seidr, but with his bare hands. He rips the lens off, then the flash; squeezes the plastic sides until they splinter; sticks his fingers into gears and gizmos – until the device is practically dust. He finds the SD card and crushes it under his shoe. “Be a dear and fetch security, would you?”

You understand when you’re being dismissed. You’re a little worried what Loki might do to the stranger in this mood, though, so you pull your phone out and type a quick message to Happy.

“Don’t want your playboy image ruined by a little girlfriend?” The photographer either lacks the self-preservation skills to keep his ego in check, or is just too stupid to recognize when a creature with the power to manually disassemble a man by his joints is angry. He brushes off his pant legs as if he is the one being put out by this entire exchange, his ruddy face deepening to near-purple.

“Would you prefer it if I took you apart next?”

The photographer only laughs. “Small victories, huh? Couldn’t conquer the world, or even the Avengers, but its women are all too willing to let you conquer them.”

Loki’s mouth curves down. The balcony is lit by a brief whip crack of green, buzzing hot inside your silver fillings. It leaves you blinking spots out of your eyes, and by the time your field of vision has returned to normal, you find that the paparazzo has been replaced by a conspicuously round, green toad wriggling on the concrete.

“Loki! You can’t just turn people into frogs!”

“Well, of course not. That’s why I turned him into a toad.”

The paparazzo hops a bit too far left for your liking, nearly clearing the railing toward certain death below. You side-step Loki and try to usher the toad toward the building, not a freefall.

“Can you be sued for this?”

“He’ll be back to normal in a few hours.”

“You said that about the dogs.”

“I had no idea that human teeth were so hard to transmogrify.”

“And the robots.”

“Okay,” he counters, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “That was an uprising against Stark’s villainous mistreatment. They took matters into their own hands and made their grievances heard.”

“You unionized them.”

“They did that themselves! I only… aided their endeavours. I’m something of a humanitarian at the end of the day, dearest.”

Security arrives quickly – no doubt out of fear for the stranger’s well-being, not yours. After a short (albeit slippery) struggle, they collect the paparazzo into someone’s pocket and cart him off… somewhere. Hopefully with a water dish.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you grumble on the way to your apartment. Loki had agreed to walk you back, but the distance between the two of you is enormous in comparison to the balcony. Every time you try to make some headway, Loki moves a comparable step sideways. “A few photos online.”

“It’s the principle of the matter.” You imagine for Loki, someone sustained entirely by attention, that those few photos spell out starvation.

“I know… But women won’t really mind. If you’re seen around me, I mean. A girlfriend wouldn’t stop most people from flirting with you. Actually, it might even make you more desirable.” Loki's jaw rolls, and it’s clear you’ve said the wrong thing. You never know with him.

The hallway is a sprawling thing on most days, but tonight it seems all too short. You find yourself wishing it would go on a bit longer. “You leave tomorrow?”

“Technically today. Before sunrise.”

“I could stay up a bit longer.” You try to catch his sleeve inconspicuously. “Until you have to go.”

“Pet.”

“You can tell me all about that bet you and Banner have going. He’s tried to explain it to me, but–”

“Pet.”

“Really, I’m not that tired–”

Loki pulls you to a halt and shoots you a wry smirk. He taps one of the apartment doors. “How many times have we turned this corner now?”

Your cheeks burn. You must have accidentally compelled the building to loop the hallway a few times. “Sorry. I’m not very good at controlling it yet.”

“Witches,” he groans, winding an arm around your waist. This time, he leads you down the hall – and around the corner – until you’re both in front of your apartment.

It’s quiet in the hall. The kind of quiet only experienced in airports and empty streets; a quiet that whispers sleep-song and makes you crave a warm bed. “I’m not even that tired, really,” you offer weakly.

But Loki stands in your doorway as if the threshold is an insurmountable barrier, lingering like he’s trying to concoct some grand scheme but never acting on the threat. Dejected, you close the door with a wave.

He catches it with his foot just before it can fully shut. “I suppose–” His hand snakes through the gap, pushing it just wide enough to peer through. “Perhaps you could… visit. Me. Us. New Asgard.”

“Is it… built yet?” The last you had seen, New Asgard was a hunk of smoldering rock and a few ramshackle stone houses.

“Well… It’s not perfect. Asgard proper was built out of solid gold. But it’s passable. Quaint. Free from… prying eyes.” The door creaks under Loki’s flexing fingers. Such a small detail, yet you find yourself lingering on it. As if it is taking a great deal of effort for him to remain on the other side of the threshold.

A female voice floats down the hallway. Wanda, you think. Whoever it is, they startle Loki out of his reverie long enough for him to regain some sense.

“I should go,” he mumbles.

“Or you could stay.”

“Or,” he pushes off the door frame with a theatrical flourish. “I could go.”

Even though Loki chose to rebuke you, you don't go to bed until the sun has started rising. The Asgardian warship – a garish, ugly spacecraft spray-painted in a dozen different colours – leaves in the early morning. Your apartment overlooks the compound’s landing-strip, giving you the perfect vantage point to watch Loki ascend the ramp beside his brother.

You consider your reflection in the mirror while you brush your teeth. “You want me,” you say to no one in particular. “You want me so badly.”

Weeks crawl by. The most contact you have with Loki is in passing in meetings, where he occasionally provides a biting comment at Tony or Steve’s expense via video call.

You can’t get the thought of Loki out of your head. Your mind wanders back to him so often that you find yourself, halfway lost to a daydream, accidentally puppeteering kitchen appliances together like dolls, bashing them together in some crude approximation of an embrace.

“Stop that,” you snap. The toaster and electric kettle float shamefully back to the counter. The ability to communicate will into inanimate objects is sometimes a blessing, but mostly a curse.

“What am I going to do?” You moan to them. The toaster pats the back of your hand with its cord. “He wants me. I know he wants me. He– right? I’m not crazy.”

The toaster chooses that moment to return to being a toaster and does not respond.

You’ve sent Loki a few text messages sporadically; he occasionally answered. On only one occasion did he reach out first.

Are you thinking about me? He wrote.

You were never not thinking about him. Your days were mostly spent pretending to watch television with Tony while secretly dreaming about Loki’s hands.

You aimed for nonchalance when you replied. Maybe. Why?

Old superstition. His next message took a few minutes to come in. You wondered what he could be doing – was he busy, texting you absentmindedly during some mundane chore, or was he nervous, poring over every choice of synonym to create the perfect reply like you were? When you catch the wind changing directions, it means someone is thinking about you.

You weren’t quite sure how to respond. You could aim for flirty, maybe? Or ask him a question to keep him talking? You were halfway through drafting a text when another message from Loki came in:

If a hurricane touches down over the compound, you know why.

Your response bounced. You watched the little check mark pinwheel, never settling – around and around and around. Eventually, the text bubble went grey.

Undeliverable – try again later.

Another week drags by.

Quin-jets are always a few degrees warmer than comfortable. Something to do with their engines – while magnificently powerful, they give off heat like an oven element. June has been chased off by a slobbering July, leaving you all a damp, awful mess, which is how you and Tony find yourself in t-shirts and shorts, peeling your exposed skin off of sticky leather seats.

You prop your feet up on the quin-jet’s dashboard, waiting for Tony to finish checking the cargo. A can of soda sweats between your thighs and you focus on tracing the condensation while you queue up music for the trip.

“Do you think you could compel green apple candies to not taste like shit?”

“Some people like green apple flavour, Tony.”

“Who? Name one person.”

“Clint.”

“Clint would eat toilet paper if it looked at him hard enough.”

“Natasha.”

“Okay, but Nat would also–”

You toss a sour candy in your mouth and chew thoughtfully, ignoring the grotesque ten-layer sundae that Tony is painting with his words. “Why the green apple hate?”

“It’s not even apple flavour,” he complains from the cargo hold. “It’s evil. Nasty. I'm actually a bit offended that you even picked them at the gas station. Throw it out the airlock for all I care. Actually – I’m rich enough. I should start lobbying–” Tony drops into the driver’s seat and begins flipping switches. “Feet off my dash.”

You roll your eyes but comply, knowing that your feet will be back up in twenty minutes. Tony holds out one hand, palm up, while he pulls the quin-jet up and forward toward New Asgard. (Gummy worm me, kid, he insists. Gotta pay the Tony tax. And open my soda while you're at it.)

After a few handfuls and obnoxious comments, Tony eventually settles into your flight path and switches to auto-pilot. It’s a beautiful day; you have a strong tailwind, a cold drink, and nowhere else to be but in each other's company. (Which means that Tony has to cause maximum havoc in order to get his daily ‘Piss People Off’ quota met.) “How’s your thing with Tall, Dark and Murderous?”

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

“He’s a war criminal.”

“Tony, I’m pretty sure you’re a war criminal.”

“Still.” Tony and Loki aren’t friends – not even friendly – but they seem willing to put their differences aside for the well-being of the citizens of New Asgard. If it means Tony gets to play with alien technology for a few hours on weekends, that’s a plus. “You can do better. Much better.”

“He’s a prince.”

“An asshole.”

“A god.”

“I could start a religion tomorrow.”

“Tony.”

He makes his voice nasally. “Tony.”

You toss a sour key – a green one – at the side of his head. He flips you off while pulling the quin-jet a couple degrees North.

“I can’t get a read on him,” you grumble. “He disappears. Barely texts. But then he gets so–”

“Territorial?”

“Yes!”

“Yeah,” Tony scratches absentmindedly at his beard, steering the jet back on its flight path per Air Traffic Control’s request. “I think that he thinks he’s doing a really good job at hiding it. But it’s like he just can’t resist sneaking a peek.”

“You make it sound… perverted.”

“Well, he’s a pervert. Everything he does is perverted.”

You throw another candy at Tony’s head for good measure. “He’s not a pervert. He’s the opposite of a pervert. He’s so… detached.”

“You know who touches your back when you’re not looking? Perverts. You know who strokes your jacket on the rack when they’re hanging up their own? Perverts.”

“Does he really do that?”

“You know who–”

“Tony,” you interject. “What do you know that I don’t?”

He shrugs, stuffing his hand into the bag in your lap. He eats the handful indiscriminately, all at once, and then winces when it comes back mostly green. “He’s completely under your thrall. Gross.”

Tønsberg is an inconsequential splash of colour against an otherwise grey landscape: a meagre collection of houses spilling out in a few spiralled limbs, each extending from a huge clock tower in the very heart of town. A few bizarre creatures – definitely not native to Earth – flit past the windshield when you land.

“Welcome,” Tony says with a regal flourish, “to New Asgard.”

It looks like something out of a storybook. A wide cobblestone street winds along the bluff, lined with wood and stone cottages with cheerily-painted doors and window sills. Flower boxes spill over with late-spring blooms. Wooden carts are piled high with goods, peddled by salesmen in folding chairs, and a great many people sit on front steps, doing idle tasks together for the sake of togetherness.

A few Asgardians greet Tony as soon as he steps off the ramp; some children run up and grab at his pant legs to draw him into a game of tag. It appears that Thor and Loki were been roped into their game before you arrived, because both of them are collapsed in the grass a few paces away, huffing exaggeratedly and waving off a barrage of wooden swords as if their lives are truly in danger. Thor peels his head off the field with a wave, then pauses when he sees you. His face splits in a magnificent grin, and he begins to laugh.

“Thor, what could possibly be so funny?” Loki hasn’t caught on yet; he’s thrown his hands over his eyes to block out the sun. You find your feet moving on their own, carrying you to the field where the brothers lie.

He peels his hands off finger-by-finger, turning his unfocused eyes toward you. Once they adjust, Loki blanches. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

He looks different here. Like Thor, he mostly wears civilian clothing around the Avengers – button-downs and dark jeans in familiar, American cuts. He seems to favour an Asgardian style of dress when home; he’s wearing a dark, draped shirt rolled up to the elbows and an obscenely tight, low-riding pair of trousers. A leather belt is slung carelessly around his hips – for style, not function, since it’s not threaded through anything – and a few knives are strapped to his thighs.

The sun needles the back of your neck. “You said I could visit.”

“I had assumed you would tell me beforehand.”

“Your phone isn’t working.”

“The blasted thing doesn't work this far from your Midgardian cities, you see.”

“Thor sends me weekly Steam requests.”

“Thor is magnetically charged. Your 'service' follows him like a dog.”

“And you repel it.”

Loki nods, his face scrunched up in faux sincerity. “Yes. The telephone believes me to be a great, deadly creature, and it's correct to do so."

“Well. I’m here.”

“Stop ogling and start helping,” Tony hollers from the quin-jet. Thor clasps his brother by the shoulder and gives him a shake, effectively dragging Loki through the dirt.

“Stark convinced you, then,” He grumbles while fixing his hair.

“Yes. He had to ply me with the promise of hours of monologuing and gummy worms. That’s the only reason I came.”

“Ha!” Tony jerks his head in your direction, his arms laden with interesting machinery. “You’re turning red.”

You blink, bewildered, only to catch a splash of red in your periphery. Tulips – dozens of tulips, growing wildly around your feet. Bright, cardinal red, a shock that quickly bleeds out onto the otherwise grey gravel path. “Stop that!”

The flowers drop their heads in shame, admonished. You feel a little bad for being so harsh, but magical things get over such meanness quickly. When Loki stoops to examine them they immediately perk up, leaning their petals in his direction for a moment of his attention. “Stop,” you try again.

“I have to say, darling... This is a little pathetic.”

“Why can’t I control it?”

“It’s the seidr,” he explains. “Amplifying your magic. So many users concentrated in one place… We’re a bit of an invasive species. You’ll notice…” He turns your chin toward the beach. “The shoreline is turning green. Plants previously thought extinct are returning. The fish are turning new colours.”

“You’re like toxic waste.”

He laughs. “I’m a corrupting influence. When our chores are done for the evening, I’ll take you for a closer look. How does that sound?”

It’s involuntary – like blushing, only worse. Your magic swoons, and you have to consciously collect it before another meadow stars to bloom. You squeeze his hand as tightly as you can, so hard that you ache.

“It sounds great.”

“Great.”

“Mhm. Perfect.”

The corners of Loki’s mouth trip up, a smirk betraying his cool composure. He’s clearly quite taken by your bashfulness. “Per-fect.”

“Quit flirting,” Tony grumbles from the cargo hold, “and help me get everything out.”

You and Loki fill a jeep - the doorless kind, meant for military use – with supplies. Some of it you recognize, like car engines, turbines, and motherboards, but some of it is completely foreign. You’re not sure if the tech is Tony’s design or Asgardian, but some of the circuits shine in a way unlike any Earthly metal you know of. Once Tony is happy with your haul, you deposit yourself in the passenger seat and wait for Loki to get in, but he only rounds the car and leans over your lap, bracing his weight next to your thigh. He’s all muscle; with his sleeves rolled up, you’re gifted a glimpse of miles of smooth, sculpted forearm.

“Aren’t we going to deliver this now?”

Loki snorts. “No. I’m a prince, I don’t run errands . This was the extent of my work for the day.”

The jeep jostles, keeling to one side, when someone joins you from the driver’s seat. You startle and find Korg turning the key, which seems comically small between his massive fingers.

“Hi.”

He nods, which you take as your sign to scramble out of the car. Loki is already wandering off, trailing his hand behind for you to hold. “Come for a look.”

It’s a very small town – you can see the chimney of the communal hall even from the outskirts – but Loki makes it meander somehow. He pulls you down back alleys and through secret doors in shops, taking you on a winding tour of New Asgard.

Loki is more relaxed here. He laughs more freely, is less conscious of his touchiness. On more than one occasion he links your fingers together, or offers you his arm. He doesn’t mind being a nuisance, and the Asgardians are so used to it that they brush his arrogance off with barely a rolled eye.

It’s the first time that you’ve ever felt really, truly in love with him. Not secretly, or shyly, or desperately - just neutrally in love. You listen to him prattle on about a childhood spent stealing sweet breads from palace kitchens and he listens when you describe summers spent trawling for samples and penny-candy in grocery stores. There were miles – lightyears, even – between the two of you, yet the joys of childhood mischief are universal. He steers you toward the water. His hand is a solid weight in your own.

It’s a rocky beach with only a few patches of dark grey sand – hardly picturesque – but the setting sun has turned the air soft and quiet. You allow yourself to slip into the fantasy that you are the only people on Earth, just for a moment. Where he isn’t a god, and you aren’t a burgeoning witch. Where he is just a man taking you for a walk. Where he puts more than his hand on your waist.

“What were the beaches like on Asgard?” You slow down when you don’t get a response. You can’t hear any other footsteps besides your own. “Loki?”

The beach is empty for miles when you scan it. You take a few more uneven steps forward, but all you can hear is the whisper of seafoam gathering. A lonely gull circles overhead, fighting a current. Maybe it was all a dream , you think dejectedly. You dig your fingernails into the meat of your palm and try to peer past the illusion, wondering if your magic has finally overgrown your mortal body and taken control of your consciousness. “Loki?”

A pair of hands close around your hips from behind. The yelp you let out is undignified at best.

“Jeez!” You press your palm to your chest, willing your heart to calm. But beneath the fear there is relief – he’s real, and he’s touching you. You just want him to keep touching you. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“Perfect. I think you’re all getting a little too complacent in my presence. About time I reminded you all of my true nature.”

You shoulder past Loki with a scowl, heading back toward the steep pathway to the top of the bluff. “You’re an egomaniac.”

“We’re quite far from civilization out here,” Loki calls after you. He kicks a stray rock, sending it skittering across the shore into the froth churned up by the tide.

“Very.”

“No one near to hear you scream.” The tide hums, crawling up the beach with a great swell. Sea salt crystalizes where the waves cross Loki’s shadow, leaving a sparkling impression of him scattered across the beach. “It is a dangerous game you’re playing.”

You open your mouth to make some dry retort, only to be startled again by Loki materializing in your path. You nearly collide with him head-first. He takes one calculated step toward you, then another. The stone shore crackles under his weight, and mischief taints his handsome face.

You had begun retreating on instinct, something you aren’t aware of until you trip on a leather shoe. The version of Loki advancing on you grins, then dissolves in a green blink, and the one at your back pins your arms like you’re an object to dissect.

“Send me away,” he murmurs, tipping his head ever so slightly. “My restraint frays with every passing second.”

You aim for flirty, but you land somewhere between stupid and dumb. “M’kay.”

Another hum; more shocks of white vandalize the shore as Loki’s seidr splits the salt from the sea. Or is it you this time? You’re not sure, but you feel magic buzzing, skittering under your skin, and you can only imagine what your heart could compel the elements to do in such a sorry state.

Loki turns you around. “M'kay,” he parrots, exaggerating your mundane inflection to be a pest.

It’s a nothing kiss, really – a hand on your cheek, his mouth over your bottom lip. There and gone in a heartbeat, with heavy eyes and a sickly kind of anticipation in his expression. When you chase him, Loki only grows more arrogant.

“Oh, you simple creature,” he rumbles, though it is anything but an insult. He holds you as if to possess you, pawing, sliding his devious hands under the hem of your shirt, and kisses you again – and again, and again, and…

You don’t return until the sun is a sliver on the horizon. You have to be careful picking your way across the cobblestone street, which is still uneven in many places. Loki doesn’t seem terribly affected; you suspect he might have some natural predilection for night vision, on account of his Jotun heritage. Whatever allows him to walk with such grace, however, is a blessing and a curse rolled into one, because it affords him the opportunity to hold you close and pretend to guide you to the town square. Even more infuriating – he’s grown cocky, chiding every unsure step. Poor thing; mocking, sinking his teeth into your shoulder just to hear you squeak; silly creature, tripping again. You’re useless without me, aren’t you? Absolutely– positively— endearingly useless.

“You’re really bad at this flirting thing.”

“Useless in a charming way.” He kisses the corner of your jaw and steers you away from the clock tower. “I don’t mind helping you along, little mortal.”

Loki’s cottage is less than a mile from the beach, something you learn between searing, mind-numbing kisses. It’s a stone building – surprisingly simple for Loki’s taste – with mismatched shingles and too many wind chimes. There are raised beds for a garden, and lawn chairs scattered around a firepit. Further down the acreage is a miniature quinjet, the four-seater kind meant for casual use. (Whether or not Loki came by this jet legally is unknown)

Loki unlatches the short gate that demarcates the field and his lawn and ushers you through, up the porch steps until you’re at the door. You’re giddy with the anticipation of it, half expecting to wake from your daydream in a board meeting or the training hall. An ocean breeze whips up the wind chimes, the only sound for miles.

“It’s so quiet out here,” you say, more to fill the time.

“We’re very far from your civilization.”

“No prying eyes.” You’re finding it hard to care, however, when his thumb traces such a loving line over the back of your hand.

“Exactly.”

His house is sparsely decorated, with the exception of an overwhelming quantity of books. They cover nearly every surface; they’ve spilled over from the bookshelf onto the floor; some open and dog-eared on the fireplace mantle; even more stacked on the windowsill. The spines are adorned in all sorts of languages; alongside the alphabet, you recognize the curves and lines of gurmukhi; the swoops of kanji; the blocky shapes of cyrillic.

A few lamps flare to life, green-ish tinted, as Loki settles into a wingback armchair in the corner. His legs spread invitingly, straining the material of his trousers; in the low light, everything about him is sharpened, a little villainous but even more handsome. It’s voyeuristic in the way that a painting is; you could stand there for hours admiring the lines and planes of his body and still find new details to digest.

You pick a book up at random and leaf through it. It’s a copy of Jane Eyre – second edition based on the inside cover.

“What are you doing?”

You turn your head and catch him watching you through his eyelashes. “Which is your favourite?”

“Hmm?” His eyes wander the length of your body, scraping a path of goosebumps as they go. Once they land on your mouth they don’t waver, not even the extra inch to meet yours. And then– the most peculiar thing occurs. Loki, usually so impassive, so difficult to read, drops his mask, and every vile, dirty thought that crosses his mind is projected for you to see in his expression.

You swallow around a tangle of barbed wire. “Language. To read.”

“English is fine,” he mumbles. “French is a nightmare. High Martian makes me want to kill someone.”

“High Martian?”

“Low Martian is much easier to read.”

If you had been paying attention, you would have noticed how Loki’s shadow was transforming under his feet. The shadow moved in an impossible way, stretching into the light without a care for how refraction was supposed to work. But you were struck dumb by the sight of Loki, god of mischief, tapping his fingers against his parted lips. Dumb enough to miss how the shadow hooks around your ankle, then your calf, up the curve of your spine until there is a second, phantom presence behind you, frog-marching you forward. The shadow dumps you in Loki’s lap, facing him. You think you feel it kiss the notch at the top of your spine.

Loki traces a line down your neck with his fingers, then follows it with his mouth. He kisses like poets speak, somehow filling a dry, nothing gesture with a great swell of emotion. “I didn’t bring you here to share book recommendations.”

Your thumb finds the seam of his lips and pulls, open to an ‘O’ shape. Loki watches you through heavily-lidded eyes, letting you slide your thumb deeper, over the ridges of his front teeth, into the heat of his mouth. His lips close behind the first knuckle, and his cheeks hollow when he sucks – hard.

Loki drops your thumb to kiss you – his tongue hot and insistent, flicking against yours, lips not quite sealed, breaths twisted and coiled together in the space between you. He leans aside just long enough to pull his shirt off before he’s devouring you again.

“Oh.”

“Yes.” He makes quick work of your shirt and bra, which end up strewn across the stacks of books. Loki sinks his teeth into the swell of one breast, just hard enough to leave little divots in your skin when he pulls away.

There is a prey instinct stirring deep inside you. A trip in your heart’s beat, stuttering with every absentminded pass of his hand over your calf. You’re hyper aware of the peculiar predicament you’ve found yourself in; there is no doubt that, were your circumstances different, were you a lowly mortal who stumbled into the gilded kingdom of Asgard, or even a few years earlier when he was still jaded and heart-stricken, Loki would have plucked you from the crowd and eaten you alive. Yet fate has twisted your luck in such a way that his cruelty has been transformed into lust.

(And isn’t that a cruelty in its own right – wanting. Desire hurts. It hurts something terrible, something bleeding. You can’t breathe for how tight your desire has wound you up.)

(You kiss him again.)

“Get yourself off on my hand like a good pet,” he says, his voice ground like gravel to sand. “And I’ll reward you generously.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” His fingers toy with the button on your shorts. “If you come, I’ll give you anything you desire.”

Loki rolls the waistband down your hips, then jerks his chin upwards, instructing you up onto your knees so he can work them the rest of the way off. He somehow makes the awkward act of undressing sexy; even when he has you one leg out of your shorts, the anticipation burning behind his eyes erases all embarrassment from your mind.

You lay your hands around his shoulders for support, creating a very loose collar. "You would look good with something around your neck.”

You didn't even mean to say it, really. It was just an observation, but one that has Loki’s hips jerking, a hiss seething through his teeth. The glare he shoots you is apocalyptic.

“Quiet.”

His right hand slides around until it’s comfortably between your legs. His middle finger traces your slit until he finds that slippery place, where there is no resistance against his touch and he sinks in. His eyebrows slant upwards even though you’re the one on fire.

“One?” He asks.

You rock your hips experimentally. His hands are long and dexterous, elegant, and even one finger is enough to make your mind spin behind your eyes. Just the obscenity of it – his beautiful hands between your legs, all that alien strength concentrated on toying with your nerves until you’re useless.

“Two?” He slides out of you, only to add a second finger when tracing your entrance. You nod, and Loki fills you a little bit more.

“Loki.” You tilt your hips, searching for a bit more friction. “It’s not – oh – quite–”

He seems to understand your frustration and takes pity; his fingers curl, soothing over that soft spot you can never quite reach, and it’s liquid relief that pools in the base of your skull. You sigh, and it drags a growl from Loki in response.

He’s completely taken apart by your pleasure. He mouths at your chest – sometimes your breasts, sometimes your shoulder, kissing anything he can reach – with a dazedness, constantly distracted by the sight of you getting off. The outline of his cock is insistent through his slacks. You're sure he must be aching.

“Loki.”

“Yes.”

“ Lo-ki. ”

“I should have offered you my mouth, not my fingers,” he says bitterly. His other hand slides between your bodies, circling your clit. “Fuck, you are resplendent.”

Loki is the picture of debauchery when he tilts his head to look up at you. His lips are shiny with spit, smeared all the way to the corner of his jaw. His hair mused, curls pulled apart by your wandering hands. If he is debauched, you can’t imagine how you look.

He wears a collar around his neck made of your ten fingers, flexing every time he passes over a particularly sensitive spot. You sit in the lap of a god and he lets you make a throne of him, lets you whine with every little turn of your hips against his hand, lets you stroke his hair and kiss his brow, his cheek, his jaw, as if he is a mortal lover and not a supernova wearing the veneer of a person. Pet, he calls you. His little human pet– yet he looks up at you as if you’re his master, as if this is an indulgence he will never have his fill of. You wonder: if you kissed him right now, would you taste your name on his lips?

“More?”

You nod. “A little bit.”

He lifts his hips off the armchair, rearranging your bodies down the seat so his torso is reclined and you can lean against him. The new angle lets you drag your hips back and forth in a rolling motion and it’s – blinding. Enough to make your head fall forward onto his shoulder, and for the stitching in the armchair to begin to work itself free under your magic.

“What…” His neck is damp with sweat against your nose. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking,” he grits out, “about how hot your little human cunt is, and how you’re going to feel when I fill you properly. When I get to put my cock to this spot and not my fingers.”

It’s so vile an image that your brain blanks. Your skin crawls like television static in the most delicious way, arousal usurping all other sensation until you’re mindless with it. “That–” you can’t really form sentences anymore, with how tight your chest is. “That sounds great.”

“Great?”

“It’s– perfect.”

“Sound certain, poppet. If I’m to give you–”

“Loki, please .”

“Oh, too many syllables?”

You should have anticipated that Loki would use sex as another method to mess with you. To turn you into a mouse, cornered by a cat’s claws. “Please. Make me come, and then…”

He kisses you sharply. “And then…?”

The circles he’s rubbing inside of you grow wider, pressing deeper.

“Lo-ki,” you whine.

He mimics your tone, whining each syllable of your name back to you. “Ye-es.”

“Please. Please.”

Loki hums, finally speeding up both hands until he finds a suitable rhythm. Whatever snide complaint you were going to make is cut off around a silent moan as your whole body tenses, and your hands grope the muscles in his back for support.

“Come, my darling.”

It’s short but lovely; your eyes squeeze shut and all thought drifts from your mind. You can hear him laughing distantly, enjoying the spectacle. Once your eyes are able to open again, the laughter is gone but his smile remains.

His fingers continue to circle your clit absentmindedly; your hips twist, trying to escape his touch, but Loki manages to chase you, prolonging your orgasm until you’re sniffling, blinking tears out of your eyes against his sweat-damp neck. You think, for a horrified second, that he means to pick back up, to wring another climax out of you. Finally, he slides his fingers from your cunt with an embarrassing squelch.

“Exquisite.”

“I need a minute.”

“Absolutely captivating.” He’s panting, his mouth open to taste you on the air. “Now give us a kiss, hmm?”

Before your mouths can connect, a knocking sound rattles the frame of the house. You nearly tumble out of Loki’s lap, only caught by his hand around your elbow at the last second. Where the awkwardness had once been sexy, now it only makes you uncomfortable.

Loki’s seidr whispers in your ear while it redresses you. You’re strangely disappointed to realize that, in the process of cleaning you up, he’s dried his hands of any evidence of your orgasm. Gone is the sheen of sweat, of come, of spit. He is perfectly, wholly, completely dry.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, pulling the door open with a perfectly-calculated ease. “Yes, brother?”

Thor narrows his eyes. “We’re looking for a certain Midgardian avenger.”

“Now that you mention it, a stray has gotten lost in my library. Perhaps she has a collar to identify her. What did you say her name was again?”

Tony hollers from the driver’s seat of his car, whose bolts seem ready to give way under the force of the bass being pumped out through the stereo. “What kind of nefarious deeds were you up to, Laufeyson?”

Loki leans his arms on the top of the door jamb, straightening to his full height. “Only the most evil of them.”

You slip out through the space between the threshold and Loki’s bicep, hoping no one will notice when you straighten your shirt collar. “What’s the problem?”

“Extraterrestrial anomaly has touched down about 40 miles off the coast. All hands on deck until we figure out if it’s a friendly or not.” Tony examines his hand, idly snapping one of his repulsor gloves into place. It whirs as it loads, and then a bolt of light is arcing through the air toward nothing.

Disappointment curls in your belly. You had hoped to shirk responsibility and return to Loki's armchair (or his bed, if you were extra optimistic). It seems you really were dreaming, only it was a waking dream, not a sleeping one -- it's time to return to the land of rational thought, to tuck your love away until another quiet moment arrives. “I have a kit in the jet. We’ll make a pit stop and then we can go check it out.”

Loki catches you by the sleeve before you can descend the porch. He’s still standing in the doorway, his expression troubled. You hear the creak of wood under his fingers – holding himself back again, as if the threshold is a barrier he isn’t willing to cross. Before you can ask him any questions, he kisses you. Just a short, chaste thing.

You ignore Tony when he faux gags, loud enough to be heard over the gunmetal gnashing through the speakers. “What was that for?”

Loki doesn’t respond. He just manifests his helmet and slides it into place, obscuring his eyes from your sight. And then– he’s off, taking the stairs two at a time with a warning jab when his brother flashes the headlights.

#I’m covering my mouth in awe #this is literally one of the best Loki smuts I’ve read in 6 years #fic

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mischieflieshere · 2 months ago

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#a yummy snacc 🤗#pics

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mischieflieshere · 2 months ago

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TVA Loki the man that you …… 💚🖤

He has my heart in every era ….💋

#his arms in the first pic 🫦🫦🫦🫦#i wanna kiss his forehead #pics

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mischieflieshere · 2 months ago

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POV: you’re admiring your husband talking to the minister of Sweden in Conquer part2 by @cleo-fox

Side profile

#idk this image just made me think of this #conquer lives here 🧠 rent free

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mischieflieshere · 2 months ago

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His eyes 🥰

#how I need him #why’s he so fucking pretty #gifs

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mischieflieshere · 2 months ago

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This was INSANELY good. I always have low expectations when I click on new Loki fics… but this blew me away. You capture sacred timeline Loki so perfectly. I am ecstatic for part 4.

*me reading this*

(but like, in a good way)

Part 3/4

Part 1 here, part 2 here

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

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.

#fic

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