Your progress in both magic and combat was slow, but steady.
After three days of sparring, Loki had escalated to using magic during training, and several days after that he had matched your pair of sticks with rudimentary weapons of his own. Your illusions got steadily more stable and complex, and you were learning how to join your movements with your magic - muscles charged full of power - and you learned to conjure small invisible forces that could stir up rocks and debris.
Your achievements paled in comparison to all of the tricks up Loki's sleeve, but still you were chasing after him - yesterday's efforts not quite enough to best yours tomorrow.
Your bargain stood, and every day he won, and every night you knelt before him and took your pleasure there - the intimacy being the salve to mend your weary body. The conceit was that when you were on your knees, or when he was on top of you that he had all of the control, all of the power. But the reality was that when you let Loki take charge, it liberated you to focus on the connection you had, a much needed break after your lengthy days of struggling through new concepts. Your training meant questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself, but evenings with Loki came naturally, without worry.
You'd been at it for about two weeks now and you could feel yourself hitting a block. You'd been giving it your all and yet Loki hadn't needed to escalate his efforts to thwart you in a while. You weren't sure how much more you could throw at him, you were beginning to feel tapped out.
You were knocked down for the third time that afternoon, and when Loki helped you back up, expecting to keep going you asked for a break. You threw your sticks down harder than necessary and wandered off, unable to face him in your frustration. To your relief Loki hung back, giving you space as you walked away, the crunch of ice beneath your feet.
You watched your breath pillow in steamy huffs, hands on your hips, feeling the delicate kiss of the occasional snowflake hitting your searing skin. The ground had hardened with frost the last few days and everything had been icy and slick with slush. A miserable slippery soup to fight in, and every fall hurt twice as much without soft dirt below as cushion. Tears threatened to flood your eyes as you tried to focus on anything and everything else but your discouragement.
In the distance the Seidr Plains loomed large. Heimdall stood sentry, a speck amidst stones, having sent Thor through for some reason hours before. You wondered if he was watching and what he thought of this whole mad exercise. You thought about what the witches had said about your magic being connected to the power that the Plains channeled. You thought about how your skin prickled now, every time Heimdall conveyed someone through. You thought about how the swirling patterns of the Plains were so much like the sigils and runes that the crone had you fixate on to focus your power.
An idea occurred to you. A mad, ambitious, impossible idea. But what did those words mean to you anymore? Hadn't everything in this new life of yours been extraordinary and inexplicable?
You walked back to your training grounds, reinvigorated to give it another go. You weren't sure what you would do if this didn't work. You didn't want to think about it.
"We can stop now. If you need," said Loki, searching your expression and asking more than anything.
You shook your head as your only response and picked up your sticks. You needed to get your head in the right place without talking it through.
You and Loki squared up again and you met his gaze, focusing keenly on his location. Or more precisely, the spot directly behind him. You took a deep breath and charged. Loki took a defensive stance waiting to meet your blow - it was the same way a hundred of these little skirmishes had started.
You bridged three quarters of the distance to him before you let your skin and bones sear with magic, focusing on your intentions, remembering all of the techniques of control that you could manage. Your eyes burned against the blinding, shimmering light that manifested, so you closed your eyes and held your breath for good measure. You had no idea if this would work if it would tear you apart.
When you re-opened your eyes a moment later you were standing directly behind Loki and atop a seared swirl of sigils burnt into snow and stone and grass.
"HA!" The laugh erupted from you, betraying your location.
Loki turned and swung, shocked by his newly vulnerable position, but you surged your magic again and disappeared in front of him in a flash of rainbow-flecked gleaming light. You reappeared behind him again and lunged. You knew you only had moments before he projected duplicates, still indistinguishable to your untrained eye, and he would regain the advantage. This was your best shot, your only shot in weeks, at victory.
You hit him with both sticks, dazing him for a moment then spun into a kick, knocking him prone. You straddled his chest and pined him down crossing his neck with an X made from your wooden weapons.
"I yield!" Shouted Loki, with shock and wonder on his face.
Another incredulous laugh bubbled out and you fell atop him laughing and giggling - euphoric from the surge of power and your improbable victory. Loki joined your infectious giggle and wrapped you up in his lean arms.
"That was incredible!" He exclaimed, "I knew you had it in you!"
"I had no idea!" I'm honestly just glad I didn't die, you thought.
"Magic us home my darling. You win today."
"Oh no, we're walking. It's a gift from the Norns that I didn't tear myself apart."
Loki pulled you close and gave you a frantic, sloppy, wet dog of a kiss before shifting and helping you up.
"You're starting to sound like the old woman now."
"Well whatever she's doing, I guess it's working," you dusted yourself off and took notice of the snow threatening to fall in earnest, "Let's go home. It's time for me to finally claim my prize."
While you showered and cleaned up Loki prepared a veritable feast. A glorious spread of grapes and cured game and cheese and honey. Prince of Charcuterie you sometimes called him, although he didn't quite understand the jab, that being the way the Asgardians generally ate. You sat on the sofa, hair still wet and in loose, comfortable clothing while Loki fed you grape after grape, bite after bite, not allowing you any more exertion than the sipping of your own wine. He ran his fingers along your lips and kissed at your jaw.
"What's your favorite Asgardian delicacy?" You asked, curious, wanting to feel closer to the shimmering city that you would never visit.
"Mmmm, it doesn't matter," he replied, kissing down to your neck to your collarbone
"Why not?"
"Because you're the most delicious thing I've ever tasted."
Your breath caught in your chest and you met his glorious green eyes. He took your hand delicately in his, coaxed you up to standing and led you to the center of the room. He kissed you gently, then knelt, taking your pants down to the floor with him, exposing you with a light gasp.
"I mean it when I say I worship you," Loki looked up, briefly, before kissing right between your hip bones.
You took off your shirt, chasing raw vulnerability. Needing to find power in being on display and above him.
Loki caressed your legs with soft, fluttering touches. He pressed at your thighs, gently, parting them slightly, and moved a hand up to your apex to gently stroke your folds there. He looked up to watch your reaction before placing his thumb on the ridge of your uncomplaining clit. He stroked slow circles, watching the expression on your face grow more wanting with every movement. He massaged and spread the wetness that he was slowly, meticulously drawing from you.
He gently, thoughtfully, slipped one long, lean finger inside of you eliciting a languorous breath from your lips, like the rustle of leaves in a summer wind. Satisfied with your response he moved his thumb and finger in unison, caressing you inside and out before adding his index finger to the fray within you.
You clutched his hair, holding you steady, bracing against bliss, hoping he would catch your fall should your knees betray you. He pressed against you for support and held you tight, his free hand held to the small of your back. He pumped his fingers into you in a steady pace, softening everything beneath your waist, your senses slick against his touch. Heat rose into your chest and into your cheeks. Every nerve was like a super highway conducting euphoria to your lightened head.
He replaced his thumb with his mouth using the tip of his tongue now to create friction on your pert and swollen mound. It was getting harder to stand and you leaned into each other before he removed his face from you in a sucking, wet kiss. His fingers remained inside as he looked up at you.
"Will you grant me more?" He asked, getting only a nod of affirmation in response.
Loki pulled his fingers from you and licked them clean as you tried to stay yourself, the air feeling both thin yet heady with lust at the same time. He removed his shirt and pants and laid down on the bed, beckoning you to him. When your weight shifted the mattress he grabbed your hips and wordlessly urged them up to his face, knees on either side of his head.
He he hugged the back of your hips with his hands tight, pulling you down towards him so that his tongue could pick up where it left off - with better purchase this time. You whimpered at the first of several strong strokes from his tongue up your slit to your tingling apex. He lapped at your core hungrily, enthusiastically, savoring every drop.
He hooked one long, muscular arm around your rear, keeping you from going far, while he reached his other hand down to stroke his fully erect length. You rocked your hips, leaning into his endeavors, your chest heaving from delight, He moaned into you, pleased to be eliciting such enthusiasm.
You gyrated against him in increasingly excited movements. His tongue dipped and licked and stroked hard, swirling circles around you until the pleasure peaked. You let out a primal moan and he dug his fingers deeper into the soft flesh of your hips, keeping you there on his face until he had coaxed several crashing waves of satisfaction from you.
He eased his grip so that you could shift up and back. He looked up in adoration, face still slick with you.
"Glorious," he proclaimed, hand still stroking himself
You took his jaw in your hand, and stared down at him still panting heavy breaths.
"You'll come when I allow it."
It was a page from his book that you knew he'd love. The grunting moan that spilled from his lips, and the way that his mouth skewed to the right told you that you were correct. He stopped his stroking, but left his hand there, awaiting your lead.
You kissed him, tasting yourself on his face and shifted back down his body, aligning your hips with his. You lowered you pelvis so that your opening just barely brushed the tip of his erectness. Pulling away from his lips you pushed your body upright, looming over him as he watched you keen and covetous.
You lingered there a moment reveling in your control of the situation, your control of your sexuality, your control of your power.
Loki's hooded eyes fluttered with rapture as your warmth glided over his length. He hung on to your hips as your rocked and rippled around him, the palms of your hands pressed against his chest. The squeezing in your core was getting him close, and he fought against your hips every time they lifted.
"Beg," it was your command, not your request.
"P-please," he choked out through heaving, moaning breaths, unused to asking.
Again you let him wait, clenching eagerly, tugging at him between your legs, listening to his breaths catch in short, persistent pants.
"Come," your final insistence through a sly smile.
Warmth spilled into you when he released one wanton wail and pulled you in close, his eyes closed to steel himself against overwhelming rapture and the final few thrusts.
Fatigue enveloped both of you and the idea of being pressed there against your lover forever sounded like the most wonderful notion in the world. His musk of leather and spice mixed with yours, the prickle of his hair pressed against your sweaty cheeks. The steady up and down of his chest could be your lullaby until the end of time. The cold of the creeping winter chill was the only villain forcing you to stir.
Tucked into the protective warmth of velvet, broad hands rubbing your arms, bodies pressed together for heat and affinity. Sleep would consume you shortly, but it was these moments just before slumber that you cherished your closeness the most. You were almost under when Loki kissed you on the forehead accompanied with a proclamation.
"Tomorrow, my love, we replace our sticks with knives."
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It hadn't taken long for Loki's tricks to become insufficient it seemed. He flattered himself by thinking that it was his influence that had made her such a quick study, that he had pushed her gently towards the breakthrough. But he knew that it was indulgent lie - her own will was all she truly needed.
But she had picked up on his influence in other ways it seemed. Towering over him like a work of art, a living statue, a monument to the erotic.
She is going to be so sexy when she gets those knives.