Chapter Text
The words leave your mouth in a breathy hiss before you can possibly reel them back in.
“What are you doing?”
He releases his teeth from the soft skin between your neck and your shoulder to offer up a breathy chuckle. It fans over your skin like a brisk breeze and you shiver.
You're beginning to hate the sound of his laugh, and the sight of his smile; so haughty and superior and false. His mirth is a lie that doesn't fool you. The dark prince is deeply, terribly, alone, which might just be the key to unraveling the knots he's bound you in.
“I think we both know what I'm doing, my dear. The real question is, 'do you want me to stop?'.”
You hesitate, disoriented by his teasing and depleted from the vigilance his game requires of you. Your concentration truly enters its death throes once his graceful hand skims over your calf, up your thigh. His path lightly parts the delicate curtain of emerald fabric until he coaxes out a sliver of skin in his wake.
You gasp aloud, unable to silence or resist it, but still manage to say, “I wasn't aware I had a choice.”
“I'm not a barbarian. I want you to desire what I'm offering.”
As if to emphasize exactly what he's offering, Loki tilts his slim hips ever-so-subtly to press against you more firmly. His knuckles skim further up to the swell of your bare hip, then he cups it in his wide palm, kneading the supple flesh he finds there.
“I...I don't know. I can't...think. I'm so tired, Sire.” You delicately move the velvet back over your flesh, hoping it won't anger him.
It almost does, but as soon as the tide rises it recedes. The Prince is not accustomed to being denied exactly what he wants, exactly when he wants it. At first, Loki's eyes squint and lips harden into a firmer line, but then you turn to face him.
He hadn't braced himself for that; the way your doe eyes implore him for mercy, for some humanity, for empathy. He wasn't prepared to feel the way he does when your hand settles on his chest, directly over his heart where it drums hidden beneath his leather shell.
Flustered, Loki scolds himself with distaste, flustered and blushing like a bashful school boy, not a prince.
It's becoming unnerving...
It's becoming unnerving, the way those aquamarine eyes bore into you while he contemplates. He stares inscrutably. Yet, here, so close, the nearness makes him seem more like a real man and less like an archetype, or a god, or a prince. Simply a man.
His thin lips are chapped with a pale pink blossom; evidence of a nervous habit of biting his lip. There are faint lines of worry around his eyes and mouth, not at all unattractive, just telling.
You fight the sympathy away, forcing yourself to remember that this is an ancient troubled deity holding you in his arms; a dangerously exhausted god, slowly losing his brilliant mind from lack of companionship.
You vacillate between terror of the god and sympathy for the man.
To your own surprise, your sympathy wins. Before you know it, before you can stop yourself, your hand cups his cheek and strokes softly, thumb traversing the severe contour under his cheekbone. His skin is so cold, like a marble statue standing untouched for years.
.First the prince flinches, then leans gingerly into your warmth. The muscle of his jaw relaxes as you graze it. He releases a tensely held breath and his shoulders lower. You suddenly feel as if you're taming a very ancient, dangerous, and reclusive animal. You have a wolf in the palm of your hand.
Loki preoccupies himself with rationalizing. It's alright..she's here for my comfort and enjoyment after all. This is the whole point, I suppose. And it is...so...comfortable.
You swallow hard and your breath turns baited. You resist a buzzing tremble which threatens your limbs. How long can this truce last before his jaws snap shut around you?
“You're so tired, too, aren't you. It's alright to rest,” you finally say, meeting his eyes.
It's sincere...so sincere that Loki feels his heart burst like a supernova for you, and he scrambles to hide it. He clears his throat and sits up straighter.
“Ah...yes...tired. It's been a long day for us both, hasn't it?”
You nod in relief. He smiles and his laugh lines reveal themselves with some genuine warmth..finally.
He stands and takes your hand, enveloping it with his own. He leads you to his bed, but not at all in the way you assumed he would when you knocked on that door so many hours ago.
-----
In the dark plush chamber of his bedroom, a fragrant fire burns. The golden glow, the heat, and the sweet, earthy incense of burning cedar and sandalwood lull you further towards slumber.
He glides up to you and whisks your hair from your shoulder with a graze of his knuckles. As his fingertips touch down, a fizzle of green luminescence ripples over your body. His almost-comically large robe transforms into a cozy nightgown.
His eyes flick between you and the floor as he bites his lip and taps his fingers where they still rest on you shoulder.
“I hope this is satisfactory?”
“Yes...thank you, Sire.”
He winces, still looking away.
“Please, stop doing that. Use my name.”
“Thank you, Loki.”
Finally his eyes meet yours and he smiles bashfully as he says, “Make yourself comfortable.”
You settle into a nest of the plushest bedding you've ever felt in your life; satins, silks, and warm furs in a symphony textures, serenading you in the most perfect tactile lullaby.
He smirks, watching your lashes flutter shut and your breathing slow almost immediately.
What a precious little creature.
He hovers his hand above your head, about to stroke your hair, kiss your forehead, and wish you sweet dreams...but he stops. He yanks his hand back and rolls his eyes.
He ruminates and shakes his head as he withdraws to removes his leathers, piece by piece.
What am I doing with her? And why do I care? This isn't what I planned.
His coat drops, shed like snakeskin. The long lean muscles of his torso and arms undulate as he peels the rest over his head. It feels pleasant when a draft cools his bare skin after hours in thick formal clothing...pleasant, but vulnerable.
Even though you're already fast asleep, he feels oddly exposed by dressing for bed with you in the room. What would you think of the cold hard edges of his body? The iron rigidity of his spine? The battle scars etched in faint pink across the alabaster skin of his broad shoulders and rib cage? There's a reason why he dresses the way he does, surrounded by bronzed, golden-haired warriors with bared arms like tree trunks...
Warriors like my brother, he thinks bitterly.
The thought makes him hurry to cover himself again, this time in lusciously soft nightclothes. He turns to watch you again and the bitter taste in his mouth turns sweet as honey.
The fluid amber light suits you, sweet and soft, reclined in his bed.
He can't stop thinking about you.
How your fragrant hair felt, flowing between his fingers.
How your voice danced over the words while you read. How he ached to taste those delicious words directly from your mouth, your lips, you tongue.
How your trembling body fell gradually under the spell of his touch.
The taste of you, gods, the taste of your hot pulse beneath his lips and tongue and teeth, and now you've left him ravenous and incinerating.
Violent, animal need finds him easily again, and he groans softly as he storms into the other room. As soon as the heavy oak door closes, he touches himself in the darkness, imagining your hands gently teasing the head of his cock instead of his own.
Yes...gentle...you would of course be so gentle. Your fingers would slide up, then circle around his shaft, tracing the calligraphy of raised veins before you move, rubbing from base to tip rhythmically, spreading the liquid already seeping as you move faster and faster.
He stifles a pathetic moan with his free hand over his mouth. His Adam's apple bobs with a strained swallow as he comes back down into his body, panting. Loki is flooded with relief, followed immediately by a strange unfamiliar shame.
Pathetic, he thinks, The god of mischief, prince of Asgard, who has ordered others to kneel for centuries...brought to his knees in the dark by just the thought of this woman.
All the while, you, the sweet little librarian, sleep deeply and dream richly.