Chapter Text
“I'm sorry. This is new for me. I don't know how to do this,” you explain, fidgeting with your hands.
“Do what?”
You rise to your toes, bracing your hands on the golden armor around his shoulders.
Be brave, you tell yourself. Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.
Somehow it feels like falling and flying all at once, either way, you grip tightly to the rigid pauldrons, anchoring yourself against being swept entirely away.
You close your eyes and press your lips cautiously against his, as if he really might bite. They're comfortingly cool like snowflakes melting against the heat of your mouth, and he melts with you, for you.
Long arms encircle your waist and lift you easily to reach his eager mouth. You feel your body settle into the security of being held against him, tethered to the moment. He hums deeply against your parted lips. It's nearly a growl, somehow dominant and desperate all at once, like the howl of a wolf.
When his silver tongue moves in graceful flicks against your lips, seeking entry, you grant it readily, opening for him to taste you, devour you, drink you in. The kiss ends after a small rapturous eternity. You part, you pant, you gaze into each other's eyes as the prince speaks in halting ragged words.
“You have no idea how I've longed for that...for this,” his voice turns needy and tender, and he cups your face in his hand so carefully, like you're the most precious thing in the universe and he's terrified of breaking you. “How I've needed you like air in my lungs.”
Even at the apex of this moment, you feel your heart fracture and sink as you remember what it would really mean for him to love you, what it would cost...the world it would shatter.
“Loki, I'm sorry. That was reckless. I...I shouldn't have done that” you say sadly, frantically, fighting in vain to slow the whirlwind of all this. “This could ruin you.”
His eyebrows peak in concern mirroring your own, but it's not himself he's concerned for. “My wise lady and her good heart,” he says tenderly, but with a taunting tone of wicked amusement at the purity of your goodness.
He smirks while considering how his version of goodness is not nearly so simple, so altruistic, and that's why he needs you. The prince's goodness is hidden in a labyrinth of mixed intentions (some not even he truly understands). His goodness is a dark sort.
This darkness clouds his expression suddenly. The storm shifts. His eyes go icy as he stares you down, driving you backwards with long steps until your shoulders meet the marble wall. You yelp and he rests one long finger against your lips, addressing you in his hypnotic baritone.
“Shhhhh...and what if I tell you I want to be ruined? Hmm? I'll ruin you, you'll ruin me, and none of it will matter because we'll ruin Asgard together.”
He pauses as his lips move closer to your ear. One hand cradles your face more firmly and the other settles on the curve of your hip, latching tightly. You feel your heart race, in fear or arousal or both, you can't be sure.
Loki continues in a husky whisper, nuzzling his nose into the warmth of your hair. “I'm going to bring Asgard to its knees. I'm going to burn it down and from the ashes it will rise like a phoenix out of its ignorance. And you...you will be the brilliant queen by my side, and my conscience.”
His kisses trace the slope of your neck, drawing his tongue and teeth over the contour of your jugular vein, tasting and breathing in this feast of love and fear. Your eyes close and you whimper at the ecstasy of his touch. Your powerful mind is silenced, lulled by the sensations he's granting you.
Your flavor, your smell, it intoxicates him better than any drug, any wine, and he knows he will never have enough. He has to have you and he has to have you now.
“But first, my queen, before all of Asgard kneels before us, I kneel before you and only you.”
He lowers himself, genuflecting before you, a god humbled. Meeting your eyes he says, “I need you.”
“Loki?” you gasp, feeling more than a little surprised, baffled, and uneasy at the display of deference. You don't want a throne. You don't want power or a title. You find yourself just wanting him to be okay.
He nuzzles his long patrician nose into the fabric of your dress, right between your thighs and inhales shamelessly. In that moment, all your worries about right and wrong and the future incinerate. He's a force of nature, more ancient and primal than human ethics; an avalanche, a forest fire. You're powerless to stop him and you don't think you want to.
“So sweet,” he hums as he parts your heavy skirts, nuzzles against your warm naked thighs. He rests your legs over his armored shoulders, hoisting you there against the wall with a grunt. You feel pinned, conquered, but you've never been happier to surrender, to be at the mercy of a merciless, relentless, god.
“Loki,” you pant his name like a prayer as your fingers weave into his pitch black locks. He answers your prayers wordlessly but graciously, kissing and nipping at the vulnerable flesh of your inner thighs, moving closer and closer to where your body has already blossomed open for him, ripe and wet and succulent.
He smells your arousal and purrs, “delicious,” before he tastes in ravenous strokes, groaning with satisfaction.
You inhale sharply with a hiss, as if you've been pierced with an arrow, when his long tongue pushes inside of you, drinking your nectar from the source, burrowing deep in your channel. The lean red muscle pulses and flicks where it's nestled within you, and you pulse around him; a vascular coordinated rhythm, like separate chambers of the same heart.
By the time his fingers move inside, and his tongue begins to lathe over your clit, your eyes have pressed shut. You're so close, shuttering against his gorgeous face.
You whisper his name, certain he can't hear you in his position but you've underestimated his wolf's ears. “Yes, darling,” he purrs and fixes his gleaming sapphire eyes on yours.
You meet his gaze directly but your voice sounds feeble, brittle and desperate.
“Ruin me.”
And he does. Over and over and over again. Ruins you for any other lover, for any other man, for any other god.
But for now, he ruins you while you come on the blade of his silver tongue; a double-edged sword of pleasure and pain that shatters you into a thousand rapturous pieces.
Your hands clench and release against the smooth wall as your breath slows, seeking something to grip but finding nothing until you feel his cloak graze your fingertips. You open your eyes to him standing before you once again, towering over you. He wraps his velvet cape around you and it envelops you like bat wings while you sway into his chest. You're still panting, still gripping the velvet and leaning against him as he strokes your hair.
“Thank you,” you say softly, sincerely. You have so much more to say but you can't gather the thoughts or formulate the sentences now...not after that. Once again you feel like you might float away in the storm of all this but for his solid presence, so you hold on tight, arms secured around his neck.
He chuckles and sweeps you into his arms, saying with surprising sincerity, “Come now, little librarian. I know, it's all overwhelming. Time for bed.”
As he lays you down on the rich satin you set your hand against his chest to still him, then rise to sitting on your heels.
“Wait...just wait.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes...yeah. Better than alright. But I want you to be better than alright, too. I want to see you.”
You kneel on the bed while he stands and you curl your fingers carefully into the latches of his breastplate. It surprises you how quickly and firmly he holds your wrists to stop you, a sudden defensive twitch and a forbidding glare.
Be brave, you think.
“Please...Loki.”
He releases your wrists reluctantly, eyes closing as he takes a long fortifying breath.
“As if I could deny you anything.”
You lift his sharp chin, smiling so kindly that he can't help returning it.
“Be brave,” you say in a whisper as you kiss his cheek and the latches click open beneath your fingers. “You don't have to be afraid...or alone.”
He almost lies. Almost let's slip an indignant, I'm not afraid!. It would roll so easily off his tongue (which was so perfectly made for falsehoods by fate itself). But he doesn't. He can't...not to you.
The gold plates of armor slowly begin to loosen and shed from his body, one at a time. You're so careful with them, with him. When all the metal is gone you reach towards the laces of his shirt and he grasps your wrists again (a protective force of habit) then relents intentionally, but not easily.
“It's okay,” you soothe as you untie the laces, baring his chest. He's looking away, eyes shut, letting you explore...but not easily.
You take in the pale, firm expanse of his torso as his shirt drops to the floor. Your hand reverently moves over the chilly chiseled marble of his skin. “So gorgeous,” you say in awe, like your handling a sacred object. Your hands feel so warm against him, like sinking into a warm bath. Loki can't help but relax at your soothing touch and praise.
Your fingertips find his scars, faint seams of pink upon the canvas of snowy flesh.
“Gorgeous,” you repeat and watch his face. His eyes are still shut but tears begin to gleam on his glossy black lashes. You wipe them away gently. “Do they hurt?”
He finally opens his eyes and stares into yours. He sees you and you see him.
“Not anymore.”
He hugs you tightly against himself, easing you back against the bed as his lips find yours with a new hunger. They're damp and salty now with his tears and you treasure the taste of his vulnerability.
He's quick to return your favor of undressing, unlacing your bodice and throwing layers aside, peeling you like a rare scrumptious fruit he must taste...again.
You're both bare now and he holds himself above you.
“I need you,” you pant, your own tears welling in your lashes. “I'm terrified and I need you.”
“Be brave,” he commands gently, returning your words from his lips. “Remember how brave you are. I'll take care of you. I promise.”
His lips travel down, tracing the hills and valleys of your breasts, collecting the taste of your skin on his long tongue once again as his hand travels between you, massaging against your wet seam, begging once again for permission. You can feel the hard weight of his cock pressed between you.
“Please...please...” you hiss.
He nods and holds your face, stroking his long fingers against your hair, your cheeks. That warm hard shaft begins to rub between your folds as he undulates in slow muscular waves, like a snake. You whimper and he chuckles. The trickster can't resist just a little teasing.
“Alright darling...It's all yours.”
He thrusts inside in one firm movement that punches the air from your lungs.
It's adorable...the way you cling to him. Such a small warm thing you are, wrapped around him so tightly. He grinds slowly at first and growls into your ear, “so sweet....so good. You take me so well, my lady...so well.”
Words fail you in the rapture of it all. They're solely breathy pants of his name and pleading for more more more of him...all of him.
And for the first time in his life, he gives someone all of him. For the first time in his long life, he's brave enough not to hide.