Erotic Loki Shorts

Unshakeable

She was beautiful, at least: this woman that Odin had chosen for him–-that Frigga had chosen.

Long dark hair. Smooth, caramel complexion. Eyes so dark they appeared black, rimmed with long, dark lashes.

He'd never seen her before. They'd plucked her from one of the country estates; the daughter of a lower-level nobleman.

It was your mother's wish to see you happily wed, Odin had told him. She believed it would do you well to have a family of your own.

Frigga, forever seeking to heal him. Even from the grave.

Loki would have refused the match, if not for her. Even now, a year later, the pain of Frigga's loss was a raw, bleeding wound. He considered this marriage the fulfillment of her dying wish.

It was a very small comfort to give her that.

Well, and Odin had threatened to exile him if he refused.

Still, it rankled unbearably. He stood in the great hall, at the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by dozens of Asgardian nobles, seething silently as they celebrated his engagement.

The air was full of music and the smells of the feast. People were dancing, laughing.

She stood on the other side of the dancefloor, amongst a group of ladies in glittering dresses, listening politely to their chatter. Not smiling. Not laughing.

The dress she wore would have set her apart from the rest, even if her looks and demeanor hadn't. She was the only woman dressed in his colors–vibrant green and gold. The neckline of the gown was wide and low, exposing a delicious expanse of chest and shoulder, drawing the eye to the smooth upper curves of her breasts.

It was strange to think that very soon he would have the pleasure of that sleek body warming his bed. Every night.

For the rest of his life.

Very strange. Though not particularly disagreeable.

They'd been introduced that morning, before Odin and the girl's simpering father. She'd looked at him steadily as he bowed over her hand. Responded with flawless aristocratic manners to his welcome. Soft, measured voice. Dark eyes showing intelligence, but no reticence.

She hadn't smiled then, either.

She'd sat beside him at Odin's table during supper, sharing a plate with him. Responding pleasantly when addressed. Listening intently to his polite conversation. Showing absolutely nothing of her true feelings about the arrangement.

For some reason, it made him feel restless. Itchy. Angry. He wanted to peel her apart and examine her inner workings.

If Frigga had really chosen her, there must be something extraordinary about her. Besides her beauty and that unshakeable equanimity.

She looked at him then–as if she'd known all along that he stood there watching her–and her gaze was like a physical touch.

There was a spark of something in her eyes–some emotion that drew him inexorably across the crowded room to her.

The ladies fell quiet as he approached.

"My Lady," he murmured, holding out his hand to her.

She looked down as she placed her hand in his, unhesitating, lips parting slightly. Beautiful lips. Well-defined and not overfull. Dark pink, unpainted.

He led her silently into the dancefloor and drew her into his arms because it was the appropriate thing to do–this was their engagement celebration and they were expected to dance–but what he really wanted was to take her someplace private and crack her open like an egg.