Chapter Text
Chapter 3
“Please, select a book, darling. Whatever your heart desires. I want you to read to me.”
His voice is hypnotic, calculated but somehow still seductive. You begin to move towards the shelves again in the same trance-like gait, eyes glued to the rows of beautiful volumes.
Until...
“Why?” you ask turning abruptly to face him. Despite all his charm, all his spells, your inquisitive nature still manages to break them.
“I beg your pardon,” he retorts.
“Why?” you repeat, swallowing your fear to step closer. “Why all this? There are hundreds of subjects, of all genders, who spend years learning to be perfect concubines and courtesans. They dream of being called to serve a royal. It's one of the oldest professions, and in my opinion, no less noble than my own.”
“But Sire,” you say, stilling your rambling words, and regaining formality, “I'm an academic from a barely-noble house. I'm surprised that you know I exist, much less that you'd summon me to serve you this way. And now, here I am. Ordered to your bedchambers, but instead you take me to your library and tell me...to read to you?”
Loki's face turns grim and dangerous for a moment; clearly taken aback. You'd swear that this is the first genuine reaction you've gleaned from him. Then there's something else, a subtle blush to his pale cheeks. Is he...embarrassed...shy?
Whatever it is, a strange mask of artificial glee rapidly replaces it.
His voice lowers to a gravely rasp, “My my... you do have spirit after all. I was wondering when it would make an appearance.”
Loki stalks closer, his incisive glare never leaving you as he asks, “And what right does a subject have to question her prince, hmm?”
He grimaces and, lightening quick, grabs your chin firmly, forcing your eyes on him. He whispers, enunciating each perfect syllable. “You should know that I'm capable of terrible, awful things.”
“No...I have no right, Your Majesty, of course. I just couldn't help my...natural curiosity. My apologies.” You hate the fawning whine your voice takes on, the terror so evident in it.
Just as quickly, his vice-grip releases and he's....laughing. The bastard is laughing. You feel a roiling flash of acid in your stomach; anger and indignation, but right on its heels, utter helplessness.
You eyes grow wide as you begin to understand. He's not just amused, he's aroused by this game. He doesn't just want a bedfellow, he wants to play chess...and he wants an opponent worthy of the effort.
What an arrogant bellend, you thought, furiously.
His hands are on you again. This time the touch is gentle, resting on your tensed shoulders to lower them as he delicately guides you back to the bookcase.
“No matter, sweet girl. Think nothing of it. Now...choose.”
I'm not a girl. I'm well past being a girl. I'm an adult and a scholar, you patronizing son of a...
“I'm waiting,” he says in a saccharine singsong tone.
You reach towards Plath and he “tsk”s loudly, “Come on now....something more romantic and less depressing!”
You stifle a scoff and an eye roll, beginning to understand why Prince Thor finds his brother so exasperating. You do smirk for a moment when you settle on your choice, hoping it communicates your sarcasm, loud and clear.
“Pablo Neruda,” he announces as you hand him the book. “Veinte Poemas de Amor y Una Canción Desesperada...Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.”
You hate him. Hate how beautifully his accent rolls along the letters as he recites the original Spanish title. You hate how it coaxes your skin into goosebumps under the velvet touch of his clothes.
“Hmmm. Romantic, surely. I'll give you that, but what a depressing final note!”
You shrug. “Doesn't most love end in despair?”
He squints and lets out a soft breath, as if you've truly wounded him. “Ohhhhh darling, only if you've never had the pleasure of suitable lovers...which apparently, you haven't.”
“You poor...poor thing,” he adds with a mocking tease curling his lips. “We'll rectify that. I assure you.”
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Several hours later, you had recited all 20 poems and the solitary song of despair, among a plethora of others. The books had formed little cairns and mesas upon the sleek marble floor and the dewy fog of the little hours hung heavy over the skylight in fading indigo.
Now you were dozing in his arms where he insisted you lay against him, your back resting against his chest, long firm limbs gathering you closely, protectively.
Loki watches as your eyes flutter shut and your words trail off into a mumbling whisper. Only then does he dare to touch you. He gently combs his agile fingers through you hair, skating over the warmth of your neck. He gazes lower, watching where the swell of your breath moves each delicious forbidden part of your body concealed by his own robe. He feels need ache within him; carnal want, yes, but more than that. He longs to be gentle, but of course, his reputation cannot be a gentle one. He longs to be close and sweet and vulnerable, but his position doesn't allow for such needs.
But he aches. Gods, does he ache for you to be even closer. He wishes he could let you, his carefully chosen equal, inside.
So he decides that this game, sadly, is as close as he can get to love, to friendship, to vulnerability; this teasing and touching from a distance, this hostile affection. He's not a monster, he tells himself, he's just so lonely.
He holds you closer, suddenly irrationally afraid that you will slip through his fingers and disappear like sand. You stir and he watches as your beautiful eyes open and your soft lips part into a waking inhale. You begin to stretch languidly but then stiffen, remembering where you are.
Loki's bright clear eyes meet yours, his expression inscrutable as he coos, “Hello. I hope you slept well, however, I don't recall telling you to stop reading.”
You scramble to gather your groggy senses, “Si...Sire. I apologize, it was just terribly late and...”
“No excuses. Continue,” he growls.
Then you feel it, the firm length of his cock behind you, prominent even beneath layers of clothes. You blush but choose to ignore it, uncertain if he wants you to mention it or not. You just continue to recite.
He receives a dose of your sweet scent where he's nuzzled into the curve of your shoulder blade, heady as a drug to him. He notices your hand, trembling where it holds the pages open and he strokes over your knuckles gently.
Mid-sentence you feel a cool, slow, peck to your hot cheek...a kiss that moves lower and lower as your voice goes higher and higher. By the time he opens his mouth to lathe his tongue over the juncture of you neck and shoulder, you're barely able to sigh out any syllables. When he finally bites down, your eyes close. You go silent, paralyzed, like prey.
His long tongue and sharp teeth hold you like a snake bite as the venom of his lust warms you from the inside out, every last branching vein and artery beholden to his will.
You body betrays your strong stubborn mind, but Loki experiences a similar mutiny. His need is spreading to you, through you, until all the clever words stop, your and his, and there is only touch.