One weapon of choice.
Interfere and risk pain of death.
A fight to a yield or death.
In one week.
Loki outlines the rules for you, dropping them on your head like pronouncements of death. You stand in his study while he paces, you watch him think, watch him try to reason your way free of this commitment.
“What were you thinking? Clearly you weren’t.”
You’re still in your dress, a breeze from an open door makes it flutter, silk sighing on silk. Loki forces himself to stop and look at you before he starts his anxious pacing again, boots clicking on the marble.
“I can fight, you recall.”
“Regardless of what you can recall Princess, you just now stopped walking with a limp. You’re too weak, unfit to fight.”
“And look who I’m fighting! A little bloody girl who knows nothing of war. Why are you so worried?”
“Why aren’t you! Arrogance kills faster than a blade. Did you even think about the people who depend on you? Your servant. The Little Filly? Did you even think about--”
You study his face, tease apart his fury to reveal his fear. “You’re afraid aren’t you.”
“I am not!”
He stops, forcing himself to look at you again, finding himself unable to meet your eye. Because you’re right, and you’re beautiful, and you might die. And it’s his fault.
“Yes. I am a liar but you’re still a damned fool.”
You reach for his hand, he resists your pull but still moves, making you work for every step he takes towards you. Its late, you're exhausted. You don't want to fight anymore, you've done enough of that tonight with only more guaranteed in the future. So you fold, wanting nothing more than to fold into him and let the matter rest for the night. “Yes, I’m willing to agree with you on that.”
“It is not a matter of consensus but incontrovertible truth.” He’s not grinning or smiling but he wraps his arms around you anyway, reluctant to yield to your touch but yielding anyway.
You are kissing him as you speak. “You’re supposed to trust me remember.”
I do. He answers in your mind as your mouth parts against his. But I’m still furious with you.
His mouth slides to your neck, lays kisses on your pulse.
Stop talking. You admonish as you sigh, his kisses are too hot for your skin.
I'm not talking.
His hands find your hips, reach lower to palm you rear. He grabs, nails digging and he opens his mouth to swallow your gasp.
He grabs again and lifts. Your feet leave the floor and you're forced to lock your ankles behind his back.
His bed isn't far and he's gentle when he lays you on it.
“You're not returning to your rooms tonight.” He declares this like only royalty can, words from his mouth made law at their utterance.
“I already told the girls not to wait up.”
Your fingers thread through one of the leather designs on his tunic and you pull. He's heavy, you're pinned under him but the weight feels good, protective. Solid and strong. Your impatient fingers search the sides of his body for the ties to loosen or possibly shred. There is a knife nearby you remember.
He can't read your thoughts, he doesn't want to, preferring your constant surprises than a complete knowledge of your heart and mind. But that doesn't mean you're a complete mystery, he feels your smirk when you bite the cord of skin and muscle under his ear and knows already what you're planning.
Don't cut me out of these please. The seamstress will howl.
The knife on your thigh presses into his hips when you squeeze them. He knows you're not above using it again.
Then get out of them.
With a wave of his hand and a soft swish of magic, he does and takes your clothes with them. Your skin prickles from the sudden rush of cool air, nipples hardening against his chest.
I'm not talking.
He displeasure pleases him, he groans and growls, holding onto his patience as tightly as he can, holding onto you tighter.
You're duplicitous. You're trying to make him forget his anger, replace it, disguise it with something else, most notably his lust.
But with the way his fingers pinch and his teeth nip, he's not forgotten his anger, just transferred it. You make your body a conduit for it. But that's ok, you're a warrior and you'll remind him you know how to fight.
When he attacks, you parry, tooth and nail your weapons leaving delightful little wounds in his skin. You both have stopped kissing, you've started biting. He won't leave bruises, your brown flesh shows only the barest bit of red but the stinging burn will linger.
Fool he calls you with his mouth on your breast. My beautiful fool.
You are, that and more. You make him find other words for you. Strong. With a twist of your hips and a squeeze of your thighs, you flip him to his back. You leave a bite that will purple on his neck, a warning to stay exactly where you leave him.
“Can I try something?” You ask.
He thinks the erection pressing against the cleft of your behind is tacit enough permission to try whatever you like as long you're comfortable and you don't stop. But he nods, wetting his lips with the swipe of his tongue.
Adventurous. the apple in his throat bobs as he swallows a sigh that gets stuck in his throat as a moan.
Curious. You answer, your hips rising, rubbing yourself on the long curved arc of his cock. He fists the sheets, where they less than silk, they might have torn.
“Do it, princess…”
You will but not yet, sliding back down the length of him, his velvet against your satin, before sliding back up again. Warriors have patience, they know when the time is right to strike.
You fold over and kiss him, hips still grinding, still teasing him with the promise of those hips and that cunt driving down him to the root.
He still holds tight, to you, to his patience, his trust too.
“Loki.” You moan. Then you rise, carefully with your hand you fit him inside then you sink slowly, adjusting, acclimating to the stretch. It hasn't been too long since you last felt him deep within you, but part of you still waits for the pain you always expected.
You don't feel it. You only feel heat and pressure, a glorious burn in your thighs and your cunt.
He stills you with his hands on your hips.
You rise and fall body making a hollow pop when your hips meet again. Loki hisses and his nails clench into the flesh of your hips.
“That wasn't slow.”
“I know. “
You bounce again, harder this time. There is the unfortunate metaphor for horse riding but it's apt. You know well how to move your body atop him whether you wish to trot or gallop and from the satisfied smirk on your mouth he knows which one you prefer.
You test my patience.
Then lose it.
Up and down, you rock on him, hands braced on his chest.
“Princess,” he pants. Head rolling back into his pillows.
Remind me now who is weak?
He is, he is so very weak, made so by the harsh slap of your hips atop him. He feels every muscle squeeze him, it makes him twitch, his body jerks up meeting you at the deepest part of your stroke filling you the fullest you've been yet.
“Fuck! Do that again!”
It's vulgar almost the way you take him, your frenzied rhythm jarring both bodies enough to rattle your bones. If your mouth were closed, the click of your teeth would sever your tongue but oh...
With the way you're fucking him (fucking! you repeat in the parts of your brain still able to register words and thoughts. How delightful! How carnally satisfying to desire and be desireable enough to just fuck!)
You don't chew through your tongue with your teeth because your mouth is never closed. It’s wide open in a permanent ‘o’, every one of your thrusts makes you sound an exclamation point on your pleasure.
Oh! oh! oh!
Your prince, he holds the bridle of your hips focused on the give in your flesh as you guide yourself down and down and down! on his cock.
He isn't quiet, and you hope polite company is nowhere near his chamber doors (or with the way he groans, near his whole wing) He screams just as loudly as you do, exulting in the upward snap of his hips and wet snack of your rear against them.
You're close, you slow, but your prince continues driving up harder and harder as you drive down, his back steadily arcing of his bed. Heels and elbows in the mattress, his body stretches, he's curved like a bow, howling your name mingled with obscenities. You tear his climax from him, rip him from time and space and thought the way a warrior would rip a heart from a chest.
You can't stop moving and shaking, feeling him pulse inside you. Your head tips back and you let go riding to completion climaxing just as he finishes his own.
The bones in your back gel you curl forward, you curl into him. The warrior has well proven her point but you'll pay for the exertion later.
His arms open to nestle you closer, and with a little more magic you’re under the covers instead of on top of them.
You touch a smarting bruise, a love bite that’s already turning from red to purple. He likes the sharp prickle of it, he likes the hissing noise it makes him make.
You shake your head against his shoulder.