Chapter Text
“Come. It will be a long night, and we have so much to learn.”
He takes your hand firmly, but delicately, as if leading you to a ballroom for a waltz. The tenderness of it catches you off guard. You expected to be yanked over to his bed and ravished, left with bruises, and disposed of. That's what everyone told you to expect.
Instead, he guides you through lavish double doors to what appears to be his personal library. You crane your neck up, straining to see the top of the high, dark shelves and rolling ladders, all intricately carved with braided motifs, interwoven with mysterious runes and imagery. You have the dizzying sense that this room is centuries older than you, possibly even older than the god beside you. A stained glass skylight (a mandala of daggers) drenches the large parlor with eerie, icy moonlight. It tangles with the warm glow of the candles below in swirls of subtle blue and gold.
Loki feels his heart thaw ever so slightly at your glowing innocent wonder; the pure love and reverence in your eyes for those tomes, for the history of beings telling each other stories and truths, fantastical or factual...of people reading to know they are not alone. People, like you and him, who so often felt alone, who felt the painful singularity of your existence like a needle through the heart.
He smiles with furtive satisfaction. Oh yes. He has done very well to pluck this librarian from her life, like a flower from a secret garden of rarities. He watches as you walked in small uncertain steps, trance-like, towards the nearest shelves, raising your hand to graze the spines as you read them. Suddenly, you remember your situation, and turn to your prince asking, “I'm sorry. May I touch them?”
He chuckles, and sweeps his hands out from where he had them clasped behind his back; palms out in an open, gracious, gesture. “Of course. What good is a library, after all, if no one uses it?”
You nod, feeling a shy smile peek out from behind your nerves. He watches, radiant with longing. Those luminous eyes follow your careful fingers, brushing the spines so lovingly...the same way he ached for you to stroke along the iron pillar of his own, smelting him sweetly into something softer.
He swallows, blinks the thought away, and dons his inscrutable mask again.
“Would you like something more comfortable?”
“More...more comfortable?”
“Well, yes. As absolutely ravishing as you look in that gown, I don't imagine it's very pleasant to wear.”
The way his deep voice dripped like honey around that “r” sends a liquid, sugary, excitement coursing through your veins. An emotion you didn't yet have a name or category for; something teetering between fear and arousal.
He leaves the room in quick steps, returning with a robe of lush green velvet, placing it gently into your hands.
Loki gives a dangerous smile and a charming wink. “And don't worry, darling. I'll avert my eyes.”
He does as he says, turning his broad back to you. The prince leans against the door frame feigning a relaxed indifference that he couldn't feel further from.
It takes some time to free yourself of all the panels and boning of the intricate dress. You wonder how something so revealing could actually have so many layers. You curse under your breath as you fiddle with a latch for the fifth time, then sigh with relief as it finally gives way.
He...snickers. The terrifying tactician, master of blades and battle, the ambitious dark prince of Asgard snickers at you and you can't help but snicker back. It was funny. You probably would have laughed harder if you weren't still stiff and stifled by fear.
Finally, you shed the last of the layers. The gown falls around you like dead leaves, as you swaddle yourself in the verdant drape of his robe, reviving ever-so-slightly.
You take a deep inhale (your first since this stressful day began). The fabric holds his fragrance; earthy, snow-laden pine trees on the darkest night of the year, sharp clean mint, and something dark and hypnotic you can't place, like an ancient poisonous flower. It lulls you into a cool comfort, stills your breath, and soothes your chafed skin. You wonder if his touch would feel like this, but even better, and the thought makes the blood rush to your cheeks.
“Better?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Yes. Much. Thank you, Sire.”
As you tie the gold cord, you observe the shelves in front of you: Cummings, Eliot, Shakespeare, Milton, Whitman, and Blake...Midgardian literature. Forbidden Midgardian literature.
You turn and say, “You have Midgardian books?”
“Yes,” he answers, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought they were forbidden.”
He drifts closer, gradually dominating your space. As his shadow envelops you, he say, “Indeed they are for ordinary citizens. Not for a prince of the realms.”
You nod and feel your face grow hot with embarrassment. Of course. Silly question.
“But,” he purrs with a lilt of mischief, “that does beg the question...how are you familiar with them?”
You fidget, suddenly feeling that the oversized robe is overwhelming your naked body beneath it as it swallows you whole.
“I am...was...a royal librarian and archivist. We have special dispensations.”
“Ah. Yesss.” he says with a sneaky hiss. It's not the whole truth and he knows it, but he decides to play with his food a bit longer before going in for the kill. He loves to bite, but he much prefers to kiss beforehand; lips before tongue, tongue before teeth, taking his careful time to taste.
His broad hand slides around your waist. The other arm gestures to the expanse of shelves. He leans down, nose and lips nuzzling ever-so-slightly into your hairline as he whispers, “please, select a book, darling. Whatever your heart desires. I want you to read to me.”