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Fic - The Jotun's Seduction - 1/4
Title: The Jotun's Seduction
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Thor
Rating: PG-13 (Eventual NC-17)
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairings: Thor/Loki
Warnings: Jotun!Intersex!Loki
Disclaimer: I do not own Thor and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: He’s innocent – he wants him!
Loki’s life might be quiet, and lived in a secluded village, but that’s essential if he’s to put his turbulent past behind him. However, his new-found stability is threatened with the arrival of Prince Thor...
Thor is tall, strong and...dangerous – and he wants the mysterious Loki. His touch leaves him aching for more, but he knows he’d be playing with fire. And there are just some things that he can’t tell him without opening a can of worms.
But how long can he resist Thor’s brand of searing, exotic seduction...?
Author's Notes: This was written for Unconventional Courtship, and is being used to fill the 'AU: Romance Novel' prompt on my Trope Bingo table
Loki didn’t, strictly speaking, need to check that his illusion was in place before he left the cottage. He could feel the magic of it flowing over his skin. It tingled ever so slightly, especially where it covered his sensitive markings, so he knew it was holding up. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing in the mirror he had hung by the door to make sure that he wasn’t imagining it, and that his eyes were still green and his skin white.
He glanced, paranoid, into nearly every reflective surface he passed. It had given him the reputation of being slightly vain, but that was something he didn’t mind. He had the reputation of being stand-offish and antisocial as well.
It was better than being dead.
…
He made his way to the market as he did every morning. He hadn’t quite mastered the art of growing his own vegetables yet, so he relied on the produce supplied by his neighbours. His hens and his goat were a boon, and the stream at the end of his garden provided excellent trout, but peas and potatoes remained a mystery.
It was a strange experience, having to buy unnecessary things in order to make himself fit in. The Aesir he had surrounded himself with already though him unusual, so to prevent any further scrutiny, he had to pretend to eat what they did. He had taken to trying things, at least, so that he wasn’t actively wasting his money, and had discovered a taste for most of the things they referred to as fruit. The sweetness made them most palatable.
But the market that morning was busier than usual. He lived in a small village, surrounded on three sides by a few farmsteads, and with thick woodland on the fourth. Not many people shopped there, and they all knew one another; that day Loki counted several he had never seen, all of them wearing armour.
His heart leapt to his throat. The urge to summon his seiðr to defend himself was powerful, but he resisted. Magic was unusual for men here; a woman’s art, he’d been told, though it didn’t stop his neighbours from coming to him for spells or remedies. He glanced at his reflection, mirrored in a window. He looked paler than normal, but still Ás.
“Loki!”
He jumped when his name was called, but the voice was familiar. Erik – his closest neighbour, and one whose cattle he’d cured of a blight – was something approaching a friend. He didn’t mind Loki’s solitary ways, and had provided him with a brood of healthy hens when he’d asked for them instead of money for the cows. He had a hand raised in greeting and was waving Loki over, beckoning him closer to one of the strangers.
A large, blond Ás sitting astride a horse, clad in armour and wrapped in a scarlet cloak.
He was handsome. Broad-shouldered and fair of face – though slightly pained-looking and gripping his left arm, which hung limply by his side – he watched with piercing blue eyes as Loki made his way across the square, past small stalls of fruit and vegetables and through the gathered crowds.
He saw the sigil on the warrior’s saddle and the hammer hanging from his belt long before Erik could open his mouth to introduce him. A shudder of fear ran through him: it was Thor Odinson before him, notorious throughout the Nine Realms for his fierce hatred of Loki’s people.
He bowed his head low. “My Prince,” he said, and felt a surge of pride that his voice had not shaken.
“My Prince, this is Loki Skywalker. He is the sorcerer I spoke of – one capable of curing any ill,” Erik said. He clapped Loki on the shoulder, and his hand felt like a lead weight.
“I have need of a Healer, not a mere conjuror,” the Prince said, though Loki could feel his gaze upon him. It was a curiously heavy thing, that stare, and when Loki peeked up through his eyelashes to look upon the Prince’s face, he saw more curiosity than revulsion.
“I am many things, my Prince,” Loki said. “Your arm is well within my power to heal.”
“Aye, my Prince. Loki is the closest we have to a Healer in these parts.”
That was sadly true, Loki knew. There was a midwife in the next village, who also served the women here, but the Aesir considered her skill for women only and to offer her services to the Prince would be a grave insult.
The Prince nodded, and in a swift movement he was dismounted. His comrades drew closer, pushing Erik back and surrounding the two of them with horses, obscuring the view of the other villagers and making Loki’s heart pound with nerves. He hated being surrounded, especially by mounted warriors willing to – for the slightest provocation – strike him down.
“I need you to move your hand, my Prince,” he said. His hands were shaking and he hated that. “So that I might see the damage.”
There was a slight pause. “Of course,” the Prince said after a moment, and his hand dropped away. Immediately, blood welled in a gash he’d been putting pressure on and began to flow down the curve of his bicep. His shoulder hung oddly in its socket, dislocated and heavily discoloured. It looked bad, but healing it would be simple - if he could bring himself to lay hands on Asgard’s Prince.
He took a deep breath and raised his hands. They were trembling, but the green light of his magic surged forth with the same ease as always; twisting around his fingers and pooling in his palms. There was a soft gasp from one of the warriors above him but he ignored it, focussing instead on the warmth of the Prince’s skin.
Healing magic was one of the most intimate of magical arts, or so Loki had always found it. He could feel the Prince’s blood rushing through his veins, his bones slipping back into place and his skin knitting. He could feel his power – his famed control of storms and lightning – flowing through him, a deep well of crackling energy that surged forward to meet Loki’s seiðr. It wasn’t aggressive; it was searching, and Loki once his wounds were healed, Loki had to carefully detangle Thor’s powers from his own before he lowered his hands.
He knew his illusionary appearance was blushing. Beneath it, his markings throbbed with increased blood flow, and he longed for a mirror to make sure that he hadn’t slipped.
He kept his head down and folded his hands in front of him to stop them from trembling. He missed Thor flexing his arm in wonder, testing its renewed state, but he didn’t miss the appreciation in his tone when Thor next spoke.
“My thanks, Loki,” he said. His voice was low and rumbling, much like the thunder he commanded. “You have done me great service.”
“It was an honour, my Prince,” Loki replied, peeking up at him again.
Thor was still staring at him; still curious, but far more piercing than he had been before. Panic flared in Loki’s mind. What had Thor felt in his seiðr? Had he felt the ice? Had he felt a trace of the illusion that covered him?
“Such a deed must require payment,” Thor said. “What is it you would have of me in return?”
Loki floundered. For others, it was simple. He took what he needed, or if there was nothing he needed, then he took money. From Thor he wanted nothing. Nothing except to get away – to remove himself from his scrutiny and hide. Flee, perhaps. He could change his face and his name and go somewhere else: start again somewhere new. He could not afford to attract interest from the royal house of Asgard.
“Take my services as a gift, my Prince,” he said. “There is nothing I desire for them.”
“Nothing?” Thor asked.
One of his companions spoke. “A trick, perhaps? ‘Tis common knowledge sorcerers bestow gifts only upon themselves.”
“Nothing,” Loki replied, locking eyes with Thor and ignoring the one who had spoken.
“There must be something…” Thor’s gaze was searching. “A task I can fulfil. A quest. Anything.”
The press of horses around him was claustrophobic; the Prince’s gaze too intense. Loki twisted his fingers together, digging his nails into the backs of his hands. “Perhaps there is something,” he said. He licked his lips and pretended that he didn’t see Thor’s eyes drop to follow the movement. “I would accept only a promise – that my Prince would avoid injuring himself thus in the future.”
Thor burst out laughing. It was a raucous, infectious laugh that made Loki’s head swim to hear it. He didn’t care that the warriors surrounding him laughed as well; for that one, brief moment, he hated the Prince of Asgard for having such an effect on him.
“Very well,” Thor said. “I promise you, Loki, not to dislocate my arm by challenging a bilgesnipe again.”
Challenging a… Loki shook his head. Apparently, Prince Thor was an idiot. Only a fool would confront such a dangerous beast so openly. “So you swear?” he asked.
“I swear.”
Thor reached out, then, and clapped him hard on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway slightly. He squeezed lightly, rubbing his thumb gently along the line of Loki’s shirt collar – the heat of his skin against Loki’s own making him flush once more.
The moment – thankfully – didn’t last. Thor drew away and swung himself back up onto his horse, and as if it were some kind of signal, his warriors swirled away – guiding their mounts back round so that they could follow their Prince on his way from the village square. With the shield of their bodies gone, Loki found himself under scrutiny.
He pressed his lips tightly together and turned away, making his purchases as quickly and as quietly as possible, quelling any gossipy questions with a cold look.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Thor
Rating: PG-13 (Eventual NC-17)
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairings: Thor/Loki
Warnings: Jotun!Intersex!Loki
Disclaimer: I do not own Thor and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: He’s innocent – he wants him!
Loki’s life might be quiet, and lived in a secluded village, but that’s essential if he’s to put his turbulent past behind him. However, his new-found stability is threatened with the arrival of Prince Thor...
Thor is tall, strong and...dangerous – and he wants the mysterious Loki. His touch leaves him aching for more, but he knows he’d be playing with fire. And there are just some things that he can’t tell him without opening a can of worms.
But how long can he resist Thor’s brand of searing, exotic seduction...?
Author's Notes: This was written for Unconventional Courtship, and is being used to fill the 'AU: Romance Novel' prompt on my Trope Bingo table
Loki didn’t, strictly speaking, need to check that his illusion was in place before he left the cottage. He could feel the magic of it flowing over his skin. It tingled ever so slightly, especially where it covered his sensitive markings, so he knew it was holding up. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing in the mirror he had hung by the door to make sure that he wasn’t imagining it, and that his eyes were still green and his skin white.
He glanced, paranoid, into nearly every reflective surface he passed. It had given him the reputation of being slightly vain, but that was something he didn’t mind. He had the reputation of being stand-offish and antisocial as well.
It was better than being dead.
…
He made his way to the market as he did every morning. He hadn’t quite mastered the art of growing his own vegetables yet, so he relied on the produce supplied by his neighbours. His hens and his goat were a boon, and the stream at the end of his garden provided excellent trout, but peas and potatoes remained a mystery.
It was a strange experience, having to buy unnecessary things in order to make himself fit in. The Aesir he had surrounded himself with already though him unusual, so to prevent any further scrutiny, he had to pretend to eat what they did. He had taken to trying things, at least, so that he wasn’t actively wasting his money, and had discovered a taste for most of the things they referred to as fruit. The sweetness made them most palatable.
But the market that morning was busier than usual. He lived in a small village, surrounded on three sides by a few farmsteads, and with thick woodland on the fourth. Not many people shopped there, and they all knew one another; that day Loki counted several he had never seen, all of them wearing armour.
His heart leapt to his throat. The urge to summon his seiðr to defend himself was powerful, but he resisted. Magic was unusual for men here; a woman’s art, he’d been told, though it didn’t stop his neighbours from coming to him for spells or remedies. He glanced at his reflection, mirrored in a window. He looked paler than normal, but still Ás.
“Loki!”
He jumped when his name was called, but the voice was familiar. Erik – his closest neighbour, and one whose cattle he’d cured of a blight – was something approaching a friend. He didn’t mind Loki’s solitary ways, and had provided him with a brood of healthy hens when he’d asked for them instead of money for the cows. He had a hand raised in greeting and was waving Loki over, beckoning him closer to one of the strangers.
A large, blond Ás sitting astride a horse, clad in armour and wrapped in a scarlet cloak.
He was handsome. Broad-shouldered and fair of face – though slightly pained-looking and gripping his left arm, which hung limply by his side – he watched with piercing blue eyes as Loki made his way across the square, past small stalls of fruit and vegetables and through the gathered crowds.
He saw the sigil on the warrior’s saddle and the hammer hanging from his belt long before Erik could open his mouth to introduce him. A shudder of fear ran through him: it was Thor Odinson before him, notorious throughout the Nine Realms for his fierce hatred of Loki’s people.
He bowed his head low. “My Prince,” he said, and felt a surge of pride that his voice had not shaken.
“My Prince, this is Loki Skywalker. He is the sorcerer I spoke of – one capable of curing any ill,” Erik said. He clapped Loki on the shoulder, and his hand felt like a lead weight.
“I have need of a Healer, not a mere conjuror,” the Prince said, though Loki could feel his gaze upon him. It was a curiously heavy thing, that stare, and when Loki peeked up through his eyelashes to look upon the Prince’s face, he saw more curiosity than revulsion.
“I am many things, my Prince,” Loki said. “Your arm is well within my power to heal.”
“Aye, my Prince. Loki is the closest we have to a Healer in these parts.”
That was sadly true, Loki knew. There was a midwife in the next village, who also served the women here, but the Aesir considered her skill for women only and to offer her services to the Prince would be a grave insult.
The Prince nodded, and in a swift movement he was dismounted. His comrades drew closer, pushing Erik back and surrounding the two of them with horses, obscuring the view of the other villagers and making Loki’s heart pound with nerves. He hated being surrounded, especially by mounted warriors willing to – for the slightest provocation – strike him down.
“I need you to move your hand, my Prince,” he said. His hands were shaking and he hated that. “So that I might see the damage.”
There was a slight pause. “Of course,” the Prince said after a moment, and his hand dropped away. Immediately, blood welled in a gash he’d been putting pressure on and began to flow down the curve of his bicep. His shoulder hung oddly in its socket, dislocated and heavily discoloured. It looked bad, but healing it would be simple - if he could bring himself to lay hands on Asgard’s Prince.
He took a deep breath and raised his hands. They were trembling, but the green light of his magic surged forth with the same ease as always; twisting around his fingers and pooling in his palms. There was a soft gasp from one of the warriors above him but he ignored it, focussing instead on the warmth of the Prince’s skin.
Healing magic was one of the most intimate of magical arts, or so Loki had always found it. He could feel the Prince’s blood rushing through his veins, his bones slipping back into place and his skin knitting. He could feel his power – his famed control of storms and lightning – flowing through him, a deep well of crackling energy that surged forward to meet Loki’s seiðr. It wasn’t aggressive; it was searching, and Loki once his wounds were healed, Loki had to carefully detangle Thor’s powers from his own before he lowered his hands.
He knew his illusionary appearance was blushing. Beneath it, his markings throbbed with increased blood flow, and he longed for a mirror to make sure that he hadn’t slipped.
He kept his head down and folded his hands in front of him to stop them from trembling. He missed Thor flexing his arm in wonder, testing its renewed state, but he didn’t miss the appreciation in his tone when Thor next spoke.
“My thanks, Loki,” he said. His voice was low and rumbling, much like the thunder he commanded. “You have done me great service.”
“It was an honour, my Prince,” Loki replied, peeking up at him again.
Thor was still staring at him; still curious, but far more piercing than he had been before. Panic flared in Loki’s mind. What had Thor felt in his seiðr? Had he felt the ice? Had he felt a trace of the illusion that covered him?
“Such a deed must require payment,” Thor said. “What is it you would have of me in return?”
Loki floundered. For others, it was simple. He took what he needed, or if there was nothing he needed, then he took money. From Thor he wanted nothing. Nothing except to get away – to remove himself from his scrutiny and hide. Flee, perhaps. He could change his face and his name and go somewhere else: start again somewhere new. He could not afford to attract interest from the royal house of Asgard.
“Take my services as a gift, my Prince,” he said. “There is nothing I desire for them.”
“Nothing?” Thor asked.
One of his companions spoke. “A trick, perhaps? ‘Tis common knowledge sorcerers bestow gifts only upon themselves.”
“Nothing,” Loki replied, locking eyes with Thor and ignoring the one who had spoken.
“There must be something…” Thor’s gaze was searching. “A task I can fulfil. A quest. Anything.”
The press of horses around him was claustrophobic; the Prince’s gaze too intense. Loki twisted his fingers together, digging his nails into the backs of his hands. “Perhaps there is something,” he said. He licked his lips and pretended that he didn’t see Thor’s eyes drop to follow the movement. “I would accept only a promise – that my Prince would avoid injuring himself thus in the future.”
Thor burst out laughing. It was a raucous, infectious laugh that made Loki’s head swim to hear it. He didn’t care that the warriors surrounding him laughed as well; for that one, brief moment, he hated the Prince of Asgard for having such an effect on him.
“Very well,” Thor said. “I promise you, Loki, not to dislocate my arm by challenging a bilgesnipe again.”
Challenging a… Loki shook his head. Apparently, Prince Thor was an idiot. Only a fool would confront such a dangerous beast so openly. “So you swear?” he asked.
“I swear.”
Thor reached out, then, and clapped him hard on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway slightly. He squeezed lightly, rubbing his thumb gently along the line of Loki’s shirt collar – the heat of his skin against Loki’s own making him flush once more.
The moment – thankfully – didn’t last. Thor drew away and swung himself back up onto his horse, and as if it were some kind of signal, his warriors swirled away – guiding their mounts back round so that they could follow their Prince on his way from the village square. With the shield of their bodies gone, Loki found himself under scrutiny.
He pressed his lips tightly together and turned away, making his purchases as quickly and as quietly as possible, quelling any gossipy questions with a cold look.