Author's Note: Hey guys, here is that wedding night one shot I promised you ;)
Emerald & Violet
. . .
Like all those who had come before him, he took a queen.
Loki had diverged from his predecessors in nearly every way – every way that mattered, at least –, but not in this very fundamental one.
While Asgard might have thought it clear that their interloping king would one day select a mate, a partner in this treacherous pursuit, it had not, in fact, been clear to him.
Now that the time was upon them, he knew not how to feel. Relieved that his alien nature had permitted him to adhere to but one of the precedents set by his purported ancestors (Thor's ancestors, really, not his)? Frustrated that he could not escape his desire to belong in this culture that had scarred him so deeply?
He had thought, when he took the throne, he would not marry if not for love.
He had thought, when he took the throne, he could not love.
He had been mistaken on only one account.
The woman he had chosen was just as foreign as he. It was not surprising, he supposed, that no self-respecting Asgardian woman could love him. It was surprising, though, that these people – his people – had come to accept his choice.
While he and Persephone were alike in some ways, there were dissimilar in a great many more. Her temper was generally even, while his vacillated wildly; he wagered her constancy and stability would prove valuable to him, especially when he was behaving erratically, as he often did.
It was this that allowed him to love her. He trusted that she, unlike all those who had come before her, would not waver in her affections for him, no matter what might transpire between them. Because he was cruel, and he would surely push her to her limits. Whether he regretted this fact or not, still it was fact.
She loved him, despite her reason, partially as a result of the hand he had played in her development. In many ways, he had made her into the creature she was today, he had fashioned her into both something that he could love and something that could love him.
She understood ruling, understood what her position would require of her; he even wondered, at times, if she would make for a better ruler that he. She was kind, benevolent in a truer sense than he claimed himself to be. It was uncanny how one woman could be simultaneously so ordinary and extraordinary. He was her greatest corruption. Because though she recognized that he was debauched, her love for him persisted like an infection of the heart.
. . .
On their wedding night she comes to him in cream-colored lace, with violets in her hair.
She looks radiant, her fair skin glowing in the candlelight.
He could write sonnets, he thinks, about how beautiful she is, about how the rose-gold highlights in her hair shimmer in the sunlight like the gilded threads embroidered into her gowns, about how his ice heart thaws for her.
It scares him.
He knows their relationship scares her more and, admittedly, with valid cause.
But still, it scares him.
As she stands before him like a porcelain doll, he cannot help but fear that he will one day shatter her.
Perhaps she is more resilient than you suspect, part of him suggests, pleads.
He will break her or he will make her strong – one or the other. Not both. He prays it is the latter, for without her he knows not what havoc he will wreak, what type of monster he will revert to.
He studies her, reads her posture like a hallowed text. He notices even the most minute details: the way she flexes her fingers, the way she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the way one eyebrow rests just a hair higher than the other when she is trying actively to disguise her trepidation.
A blush the color of a rose's petals flashes across her cheeks at this scrutiny – he is vaguely surprised that he is able to perceive it in the dim lighting of his bedchambers. She is truly anxious.
"My Lord," she murmurs. It's uncomfortable. Stilted.
He spares her a soothing, humorless smile and brushes his fingertips against her bare shoulders.
The emerald robe (he makes note of its color) she had apparently been wearing upon her entrance was abandoned, draped carefully over one of his chairs. She must have placed it there before he had joined her, for he had not watched her remove it from her person. He would have liked to have seen it, seen her rid herself of this first article of clothing.
But the wedding party had ushered her alone into his bedroom and forced mead down his throat before allowing him to go claim his prize, to consummate this deal.
Alas, he does not dwell on it.
"My love," he chastises rather tenderly, "I think it's safe to assume there's no need for such formality." And there never was, never had been. He had never treated her as a potential spouse, nor she him. He had never bothered with the frivolities of courtship that ought to have been expected of him under any other circumstances. For them to employ such chaste manners now seems a sham of the most absurd and unnecessary degree, a betrayal to the very essence of their relationship.
Her pursed lips relax at this, and he moves closer, so close that he catches a floral scent. He studies her features; the shadows cast by long eyelashes obscure her vivid eyes, eyes such a shade of blue that in the day look almost as violet as the flowers woven into her braided locks.
But he does not love her for her beauty. He is royalty; he is a king. He could have his pick of all the women in the realm – though they might not love him, though they might even detest him, they would surely love the title he supplies. Everyone is infatuated with power, though some are less vocal about it than others. It's amazing, he finds, how people will sacrifice their moral outrage once this intangible prize is within their reach.
No – he loves her, rather selfishly, because she sees hope for him. She sees hope where everyone else sees blackness, a vast abyss of wickedness from whence there is no return.
"You are frightened," he remarks, rather than asks. His hands travel to hers.
"A bit," she admits breathily, feeling a tad better now that the strict ruse of marital duty has been dissolved. "But I've been told that post-ceremony jitters are nothing out of the ordinary."
Ah. That blasted ceremony. The celebrations had stretched on for days – he was immeasurably glad that they had finally ended. On one hand Loki enjoys all the fanfare because it puts him at the center of attention, but on the other he finds it superfluous. It does strike him, though, that he is fortunate – that, despite his guile, he is fortunate enough to enjoy the very same traditions that have endured for millennia. Perhaps he has truly attained redemption.
"All that decadence does nothing but cloak the true intention behind such arrangements," he says a mite bitterly. "When you are incessantly reminded of something's gravity, it seems impossible to think of anything else. But it's over, now. When the excess is stripped away, all that's left is what is truly important: you and I." His words are uncharacteristically saccharine and because of this seem insincere – but he is genuine in his testimony.
"You're right," she concedes, watching his thumbs trace languid patterns against the backs of her hands.
He stops eventually and angles her chin upwards, so she will meet his gaze. Though he still sees the glint of apprehension in her irises, he sees excitement too.
He sweeps his lips over hers, barely making contact. He's testing the grounds. Baiting her. Drawing her out.
And – perhaps most importantly – asking for permission.
She grants it to him seamlessly. Before he can pull back fully, she fuses her lips with his. She braces herself against him, hands on his broad shoulders, and stands on her tiptoes to better reach his mouth. But he is relatively unyielding, refusing to part his lips. Above all he enjoys the chase.
His hands hover, unsure, in the air above her hips; if he dares to touch her, there will be nothing but the thinnest fabric between his skin and hers. Even not-touching her, he can feel the heat projected by her body.
It becomes remarkably clear that he is wearing at least three more layers of clothing than she is. He had long ago discarded his cumbersome helmet, but still he was clad in his ceremonial regalia.
They seem to notice this at the exact same time, and still before Loki can pull away Persephone's hands are pushing at his coat. He could easily will away these garments with only the simplest flick of his fingers, but somehow it seems necessary that this night be devoid of his magic tricks.
No deception, not this time, he can almost hear her beg the heavens. So he allows her to divest him, chuckling lightly in the humid space between their lips. He revels in her apparent eagerness.
He is cautious not to touch her yet with anything other than a brush of his lips, to let her do all the exploring. It is she who needs to gain her bearings, not he. He is patient. He will let her take all the time she needs to get acclimated.
And so he is pliable in her hands, moving his arms as needed to break the confines of his leather coat, but keeps a safe, teasing distance.
Soon enough, she gets him down to a sparse tunic, which is when the game gets truly interesting. He can finally feel the heat of her hands on his chest through his clothing, egging him on, and it is only then that he allows himself to grasp her waist. One of her palms is flush against him and the other is moving an obsidian strand of silky hair away from his face. Her eyes scan his features, as if looking for a sign that she is proceeding correctly.
He kisses her hotly to assure her that she is. This unexpected and unrestrained passion catches her off guard, surprises her so much that he has to support her when her knees give out. He does so effortlessly, his arms snaking around her slender frame as hers wind around his neck. He deepens the kiss, dragging his tongue over her lower lip before coaxing hers, showing her, leading her, lulling her into a sense of confidence.
It is then that he becomes truly present, that all the thoughts that race through his mind, both poisoning and elevating him, freeze temporarily.
He is patient, but his patience does have limits.
He feels her hand in his now-mussed locks, feels the purposeful slickness of his hair go to ruin. He does not care. In retaliation he destroys her meticulous braid, digs his fingers into it until he can feel her scalp and sends a shower of flowers falling to their feet.
He tastes her in his mouth. Her teeth graze his lips. As always, she is proving to be a delightfully receptive pupil.
His fingernails dig into the flesh at her waist, even through her nightgown, and she gasps. The sound is so errant and yet so exquisite and unknown that he experiences that telling twitch in his nether regions that he had not yet expected.
Slowly, tentatively, her fingertips float beneath his emerald tunic. They are met with the smoothest plane of skin. The wiry muscles of his abdomen tense beneath her fluttering touch and his hands rove audaciously down, down to her soft bottom, and make a home there. He lifts her up.
She knows little, but she knows enough. Her legs find themselves around his slim waist, hips find themselves pressed inescapably against his, and she feels instinct take over.
He deposits her amongst the pile of furs on top of his bed, gently. She sinks down into the mattress and his knee is firmly between her thighs, pressed against the warmest spot in all her body.
"Loki," she mewls. The sound is music to him. He seldom hears his name uttered with such pure affection.
His mouth is painting masterpieces across the delicate canvas of her neck, painting the letters of his name, painting the letters of hers. His tongue, his silver tongue, laps over her collarbone and his eyes, hooded, glance briefly upward to see that hers are screwed shut. Satisfaction overtakes him. He knows he is talented, but confirmation never hurts. He relishes in his complete control.
However, he realizes with a start that his hands are hardly doing anything, while hers have already managed to remove his shirt and are currently exploring the whole of his unmarred back.
She kisses his jaw, the skin between his ear and throat, as his cool hands wander boldly beneath the hem of her nightdress, lifting it over her head, and he is then confronted by her starkly naked figure. His fingertips first outline her delectable thigh, then up, up to the outer edge of her ribcage, setting her skin – the color of untouched snow – ablaze in their wake. She is too engulfed in the pleasure of these new sensations to feel self-conscious about her nudity – she arches her back against him and he lets out an involuntary groan at the pressure.
Speaking of which, he can tell that she is avoiding a very pressing issue, an issue that literally is pressing into her. It's because she's still unpracticed, he knows, but this issue is not something that will be resolved on its own (or he wouldn't like it to be, at least).
One of his thumbs flits over her breast and the other hand retreats southward, pointedly.
She gasps again, steadying herself by gripping his hips. Close, he thinks, almost close enough.
It is as if she can read his mind. She fumbles with the tassels on his trousers, before finally loosening them and slipping her hand beneath the waistband. She strokes him, hesitantly, this most sensitive part of his anatomy. Though he finds it a bit crass, they continue like this until he decides that she is as prepared as he can make her for what will next occur and before he himself is spent. His self-control is typically exemplary, but profundity of this occasion has begun to affect even him.
"I must express my deepest remorse, my love," he prefaces, "for this may hurt." To punctuate this apology, he places the most tender of kisses upon her shoulder.
She sucks in a hiss of breath between her teeth; it does hurt, but less so than she'd been conditioned to believe. He pauses in the act, allowing her to adjust. He does seem sorry, but he seems equally consumed by his own lust.
After several long moments, her lips reach gingerly to his to signal that she is all right, that she is ready.
And then he moves, and moves again.
And the very earth seems to tremble beneath them.
She understands, now, why this is such an integral experience in every being's life, across even special and planetary bounds.
Her nails chart red trails across his pale shoulders, marking him as he has marked her before, marking him as her own. He sets a rhythm and his expertise unsettles her only to the extent that she notices it through the thick haze of ecstasy.
The pinching sensation dissolves rather quickly, dissolves so that she can feel nothing but him in every cell in her body.
Her breathing becomes labored and her heart races, something coils within her. Her vital signs are changing, leading up to what she knows not. She forces her eyes open, and all she sees is Loki. He peers at her in adoration, with an expression she has never seen on any face, least of all his.
He slows and runs his hands along her body, his skin sticking slightly to hers. He is so close that she could count his eyelashes; he is so close that they share one breath, that she can feel his heart pound in sync with hers. As he observes her, his thumb brushes over the spot between her temple and the corner of her eye, reverently. He has cared about some of the women he has made love to in the past, but never like this, never so poignantly.
His mouth joins once again with hers and the vigor returns to his movements.
Soon Persephone feels a spark, feels it in her stomach, in her chest. It boils upwards through her and ignites her vocal chords, causing her to cry out against her control. It is as though she has lost all dominion over her own actions, over her own body. She clings to him helplessly and desperately, her short nails sinking further into his flesh.
In retaliation he bites down on sensitive area between her neck and shoulder, branding her and stifling the noise that threatens to tear from his throat in one fell swoop.
"Loki," she moans again.
He repeats her name in a whisper thrice into her skin, the sound barely audible. It is the closest he has ever ventured to a prayer.
Unlike what he has done with all the other maidens he's bedded in the past, he makes no attempt at contraception. Even he had never been so pitiless as to risk leaving unwed mothers to raise his bastard children, the spawn of a monster, of a Frost Giant; even he would never willingly forsake women with the stain of their sin, forsake them with tangible regret for showing him even the slightest affection (though, often, his trysts were not borne out of affection, but lust). They needed no more validation in their hatred for him.
But now is different – he remains one with her until the very end. They lay in their marriage bed, after all, and this is the very design of their union.
And when the cascade of different sensations ceases, Persephone feels weightless. Loki grows slack atop her and rolls off, collapsing inelegantly at her side. As they catch their breath, he looks to the ceiling and she looks to his face.
Finally, he spares her both a sidelong glance and a smug grin, tugging her towards him. She settles her head against his chest and hears his heartbeat, with hers, begin to even out as he languorously strokes her long and tangled hair.
"There are so many things I am looking forward to teaching you, my love," he murmurs eventually, "and we have ever so much time. We have barely even crossed the threshold."
The lecherous tone with which he asserts this both excites and unnerves her. She does not doubt that her new husband has skills beyond even her wildest imaginings, and admittedly the scope of her fantasies is somewhat constrained by her naïveté.
Her relationship with Loki has thus far been defined by the concept of education – it is indisputable, she thinks, that the upcoming months will be filled with education of a whole different sort.
. . .
The End
Author's Note: I'm really not used to writing smut and it's kind of embarrassing, so please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!