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He's quite warm, it's rather ironic. It's quite the irony, that a frost giant be warm, but he is. His skin is soft and taut around muscles that are toned as a sculpture from Midgardian Greece. You vaguely remember seeing a few of those sculptures in history books from a class, school, home, and life far removed from you now. That strong, divine, warmth envelopes you now, over the furs, jewels and sheer sliks that adorn your body. His hands engulf your own, his palms practically spanning your fingertips to your wrist. His fingers are long and elegant, yet dagger-calloused and cold to touch. There are rings adorning those fingers, all exchanged for others daily, save one thin platinum band, one that he never ever removes, and one that has a matching pair on your ring finger. It catches in the sunlight streaming through the frosted window as you hold your hand up slightly to admire it.
"It means you're mine," he chuckles, cupping your cheek, He interlaces his hand with yours, his own ring bathed in the soft dawn.
"And that means you're mine, my lord," You reply, with a teasing lilt to your voice. No one else calls him 'my lord'. Frost Giant Scourge, Trickster, all those epithets fall from tongues that know not what they speak of. They do not see the man who holds you for what he is, the lord and keeper of your heart. Granted, they do not spend their almost every moment at his side, so perhaps their incomplete views can be excused. Perhaps; though sometimes you truly cannot excuse the drivel some jealous oafs spout.
They say to fear the Jotunn Trickster God, and that is quite true. What they usually forget to mention is that his consort, is even more fearsome if their lord's name is besmirched.
Though that is an if and only if statement. Currently, as his skillful hands run through your hair and braid the stray stands, you are no more fearsome than a pampered little housecat, and you begin to purr like one as his fingers massage your scalp.
"My pretty little kitten," he teases, voice deep as an avalanche's roar, yet gentle as a snowflake melting on skin, "Shall I have the forge make you a little bell for your necklace?"
You blush at the suggestion in his voice, cheeks warming at the image it paints in your mind, "My lord, have mercy on your consort," you manage to breathe out, biting your lip, "It is so early in the morning and you already manage to fluster me so, how will I survive the day!"
"Oh, you are such a dramatic little thing!" he retorts, rolling his eyes and you start to giggle as well, "No wonder I'm so fond of you, I hardly think anyone in the Nine Realms could match my theatrics!"
"Theatrics, mischief, and shenanigans," you hum, "The hallmarks of a blessed marriage."
"Communication?" he adds, "I was told that was rather important."
"How do you think the married couple orchestrates such theatrics, mischief, and shenanigans?" you chirp, the conversation turning into a playful little waltz of words between the two of you.
"Touché," he replies, rather smug at his impromptu use of the Midgardian French term.
"Je ne parle français," you reply, murmured against his chest, lips pressed against the drumming beat of his heart. His laugh reverberates as he embraces you and you're engulfed in the frosted sea of his blue skin. Your fingers trace the lighter Jotunn markings, up his collarbone and cheeks until they brush against his forehead and your eyes lock on the deep crimson of his. Red as the rose petals scattered on your marital bed, red as your kiss-bitten lips as you were laid on that bed and worshipped by the god.
He cups your cheek and kisses you, lips plush and warm against yours, his hands caressing your body wherever he can reach. You cede to his touch with a contented sigh, the frost of his magic twirling around your very soul. It is your prayer, your reverence, your very purpose of existence, to be his. The deity has captured your heart, body, mind and soul in the sweet, sweet bindings of matrimony. In this moment, there is a sense of passion that blossoms inside you, careening through your body, growing larger and larger as it rolls, rather like a snowball.
"My lord, I adore you, words can barely express it," you breathe out after a little eternity of kissing, nuzzling his nose as air fills your lungs.
"And I adore you just as much," he replies, "as much as every snowflake to ever fall on Jotunheim."
"As much as every ray of sunlight to fall on earth," you reply, in theme.
"How we wax poetic with each other," he laughs with a smirk, "They shall have to add Lovesick Poet to my epithets."
"Lovesick...that simply won't do," you gasp in exaggerated shock, "How can a faithful, devoted consort as myself bear to see their lord sick? How can I heal you? I'm beside myself with worry!"
He tilts his head, the onyx river of his hair cascading down in waves, "Perhaps more kisses are in order~"
"Anything to rid my beloved lord of his ailments," you reply dutifully, peppering his face with kisses. It was almost as if you were memorizing his face with each kiss, the chiselled contours and supple skin, the lips curved in a smirk, the cheeks dusted with a dark cerulean blush.
"Feeling better?" you ask, nestling close to him as you kiss his neck.
"My, my, I didn't know my consort was such an accomplished healer as well," he praises, stroking your hair again, "I think you deserve a little reward, something just as sweet as you~"
With a flick of his wrist and an enchanted command, he summons a servant to the room, gesturing to her to bring something back here. The serving girl nods and you are left completely confused about the exchange.
"That adorable pout of yours will melt momentarily," he soothes with an impish lilt in his voice. And right as he always is, you break into a smile as the serving girl sets a tray of two steaming mugs of cocoa on the nightstand table beside your bed, where you two sit comfortably under the covers. The cocoa filled mugs are accompanied by a pitcher of caramel, a bowl of whipped cream, assorted cocoa accessories, and marshmallows.
"I thought...well, you mentioned you used to drink this in winter back on earth and I did a bit of looking," his rambles trail off and he gives you an endearingly vulnerable little smile, eyes shining with hope.
You kiss him happily, grinning ice bright as you pull away, "It's so perfect, I love it, thank you, thank you!"
You continue to babble praises as you top your cocoa with all your preferred treats and take a delighted sip. His eyes grow impossibly soft as he drinks in (pun intended) the view of your excitement.
"You know, I've never tried these...," he hesitates for a moment, "Marsh-mallows before."
"Try one, my lord, they're delightful!" you urge, intrigued by what his reaction will be like. He takes a plump white marshmallow, squeezing it lightly and marvelling as it bounces back to it's puffed up shape. He brings it to his lips and freezes for but a moment and then lets out the most childishly pleased little giggle, squirming like a toddler. "It's so soft and squishy!" he cheers and you can't help but coo at how adorable the sight is. You offer him another and he takes it, kissing your fingers and nosing your palm. "And even sweeter from your hand~"
You continue to sip your cocoa, the warmth of the rich, decadent chocolate spreading through your body. When you kiss your lord in between sips the sugary sweetness only grows more lovely. Finally, when you two have drained your cups, the serving girl arrives to clear the dishes and leaves you two alone to savor the last moments of early dawn before the royal and godly duties of the day commence.
"I love you, Loki," you whisper, nestled against him. In those words is your deepest, most sacred promise. In that hallowed name is all you hold dear.
"I love you too," he replies, and with that reciprocity, you are fulfilled completely, not a single desire in your heart but to be with your lord for all eternity and forever more...
And perhaps to have that aforementioned lord try s'mores.