Action: 14th of the Rebirth

[brosif]

Characters: Loki, Sif, attitude
Open? No
Where: The road to the thorns
When: Day 14th
What: Sif wants to beat the hell out of Loki. No one's sure what it is that Loki wants.
Warnings: None, yet?End of the thread veers into NSFW territory!
Under the best circumstances, the Aesir were not a calm people. Even Sif, who prided herself on being a more mindful fighter than most – mindful in a daily way, which colored every movement, which left no doubt that her name had been earned in deed and oath – could be provoked to a blood rage, in the heat of battle.

She had been in such a rage for almost a day now, with no end in sight. After her failed attempt on the king’s life, she’d at least had mind enough to clear herself of the castle, of her friends and allies.

The man she rode towards now was neither. Usually more careful with her animals, she kicked at her horse, urging it faster still. She would find Loki before this day was out.

Comments

[sorcerous]

He breathes in, softer and slower than a gasp but still trembling with anticipation.

"Because it is for our tongues, our hands, our hearts," and he turns his head and catches her lips again in a desperation that's painful to feel and exquisite to express.

Is this reward? Reward, for allowing himself to be weak (for the first time in as long as his memory stretches), for showing her the anger and the grief that split his soul. For revealing, perhaps, that there is something of good in him, while he spent his centuries trying to hide it away and break it and rub it out.

He has rarely voiced any hint of friend-devotion to the warriors that count him among their company. He wants to voice it now, but he cannot, so the tight grip of his hands and the way his tongue twists against Sif's must suffice.

[brosif]

She answers in turn, then. Pushing still -- always pushing, and for a moment she's not here, but in the forests of Asgard, the hidden passageways of the palace, the lonely distance from the gates of the city to the broken edge of the world. All of the things she misses, like a blade. Loki both soothes that longing and throws it into sharp focus in a way she has no words for.

And so: another language. Her tongue meets his, pushing, until the air she breathes is his own. Her hand flexes out, moving under the fabric of his trousers, palm hot against his skin. Her heart is in her actions, on display in a way she rarely allows.

Another language: I missed you.

[sorcerous]

He curls back against the ground, and then she is above him, in a posture that to him feels akin to worship. He would, he thinks; he would go down on her with slow, sly tongue and wait as she curses him to oblivion. He could master her.

He could...

But he is pliant in her grip, as his hands move to the laces of her tunic, undo with quick, sharp, hesitant motions.

[brosif]

There is nothing of hesitancy in Sif's motions. She unclasps her vest as Loki unlaces the tunic -- that is off soon enough, until all that remains up top are the long strips of cloth that bind her breasts.

She leans down, knees on either side of him, and it is intoxicating to see him like this -- laid out under her. She wants to see him, all of him -- naked, defenseless (if such a thing between them were ever possible), spread out in the moonlight. The hairs on her arm rise at the thought, and she breathes out, slowly. She reaches for his collar and draws a line down from it, undoing the bindings as she goes, hands reaching again for flesh.

[sorcerous]

Loki is not the sort to trust; he would rather strip another bare, would rather hold them close and undo them in bits and pieces before taking his pleasure himself.

It's shocking to him, then, that he wants nothing more than to throw himself to the wind. To trust her to catch him. A twitch of his throat, a swallow, and he tilts his head back, murmuring words of flesh like mist, and his clothes melt through him and settle on the ground beneath his bare skin. Better than the rough ground, alone.

(Another brief summon of effort, and she may see his skin ever-so-slightly blur, beneath her fingers; he pushes himself into a fully male form.)

[brosif]

For a moment, she imagines she can see herself in his skin – in the reflection of it, beneath the surface. That his words leave him undone and Sif still armored is its own sort of pleasure.

But there is something, still.

Ducking her head down, she runs a trail across his torso with her tongue, taking a nipple into her mouth and scraping her teeth across it. She brings her arms on either side of his shoulders and breaks away, hovering over him and then murmuring into his ear (as her tongue works there instead, biting down at a knot in his throat – a small punishment):

“I said all of you.”

[sorcerous]

All of him --

His pulse jumps, in something akin to terror. He twitches, at this or at the sensation on skin so wanting, and he shakes his head, tightly. His eyes are wide and open on her, and he fears, now, that she'll find his secret. That even when he is lying, even when his voice pitches soft and soothing, he near always shows what he's feeling. His only protection: that no one knows how to interpret what he feels.

"Don't make me be a monster." Not now. His hands span her waist, and one drifts back, curls knuckles against her spine, holds her close. Lips to her temple, free hand in her hair. Loosing it, if it wasn't already.

[brosif]

Oh, she thinks, and the way that he takes her words catches her breath in her chest. When he twitches it reminds her, briefly, of game in the moment before it knows that it has already been shot. She clasps a hand over his, moving it from her waist and bringing his long fingers up to help her undo her wrappings.

“That was not my intended meaning.”

Only that he need not affix himself to one sex when he is comfortable in two. She sees no need for those boundaries, not when she fights to see that they do not define her. But that is all she will say on the matter.

[sorcerous]

She doesn't see it that way. If nothing else, he can read it in her hands; hands that are not careless or cruel, hands that only show subtle lines of tension.

There are two ways almost no one can lie: with their hands, and with their voice. Loki has mastered both. Sif never will.

He catches her hand between his and closes his eyes. His finger-pad sweeps along the web between thumb and forefinger. Lingers on her palm, brushes to a strong wrist, and then drifts, to the soft places between her fingers.

Whatever he finds, it satisfies him.

He reverses the glamour with closed eyes, and it makes subtle changes to him: in the shape of his waist and his hips, in fingers slenderer and wrists more delicate. It is these newer, truer hands that unbind her breasts.

[brosif]

She feels him shift underneath her and yes, this is what she wanted. Curious, she sprawls her hand out against his waist, marveling where hipbone meets skin -- sharp and soft, in an almost untraceable way, but still like no one she's ever been with. She wants to touch all of him, all at once, and curses that she has only one able wrist.

She exhales when the wrappings come off, smiles lightly, the cool night air a welcome alternative to the starched lengths of cloth. Loki will encounter a multitude of long, pink impressions across her breasts. Vestiges of her daily wardrobe routine -- this place is even poorer suited to female warriors than Asgard.

[sorcerous]

Something he has never done -- bound himself, with physical barriers. He has ever been able to form his body with his will, and he cannot fathom that she does this, that she inflicts this on herself and does not find that she hates her body for it.

He traces the lines. Pulls her down and takes her nipple between his lips, worrying at it, palm cupping her breast's swell. He is attuned to her responses, and each flicker of feeling in her arouses echoes in him.

[brosif]

For the first time since this started, Sif moves at the bequest Loki's actions and not her own. She settles her hips low against his, grinding down in a rhythm matched with the pull of his lips, his tongue. She can feel the outline of him through her shorts and presses against it.

"I--" she starts, but she can't imagine what she would say. Something about great hallways, or libraries, or the smell of rain before sunrise. She does not speak of such idle things.

A flash of heat overtakes her, and she licks a long stripe down her palm, taking the length of him into her hand. She half expected him to be cold -- she has half expected so many things of him, these days -- but that is not the case and the heat builds, coils into her core. She feels her own knuckles between them, presses two of them against her clit while she works him in a languid motion. Pleasure, here, but also an attempt to overtake the rhythm -- to be in control once more.

[sorcerous]

He looks away from her, his eyes shielded in the curve of her shoulder. His quick breath is palpable against her arm. "I know," he says, in response, and it is a lie, he doesn't, not in the least, but if it reassures her, perhaps it will be enough?

His quick, clever fingers join hers, brushing hers aside, dragging down labia and clit with the breathtaking quick-handedness of one who knows just what it feels like.

He can hardly believe his own daring, touching her in this way, and he can feel an ever-so-slight well of moisture between his legs. His more reluctant, more peculiar, more difficult half, sexually speaking, but now it seems that all of him wants her.

[brosif]

"I don't," she murmurs, kisses, into the top of his head. She feels lighter, half holding in a breath that may never come out. For a moment she's just there -- away from her body, somewhere in between the two of them. Then Loki's hands find her, wet and thrumming, and she bucks back quickly, groaning out a well-meant curse.

She looks down at his hands, at his sex, and a distant part of her brain realizes that he's touching Sif the way he would touch himself. It’s enough to push her over.

"I want to--" Gods. She draws her hand back from him, hikes down her shorts. She wants to fuck him, but any more of his clever fingers and she will come apart right there.

[sorcerous]

He stops her hands, stops her rush.

"Wait," he urges. Strokes to her bare hip. "There's no hurry, is there?"

They are alone. Her curse is broken, and he is vulnerable, and he wants to stay this way as long as he can, until he forgets.

He toys with her wetness, gently works two fingers inside, delicately curved.

[brosif]

There is, she thinks, frenzied. You'll fade away before me. Meld into air, into water, join the earth and thorns themselves. You'll go--

He'll go. That she thinks this is one thing. He may well go. That she has written such an urgency, such a belief, into her actions -- which are the very core of her -- without understanding why...

It shocks her, deeply. It means he may already exist in darkened parts of her that, if given air, would bend her in ways she is not capable of.

There is. She stares at him and is gripped with immobility.

[sorcerous]

"Kiss me," he requests, forming the words precise and smooth. As he searches inside her, coaxes her body to stretch and form and guide him to the places that would bring her the most pleasure.

[brosif]

She does, but her body is coiled, as if she may snap back and flee at any moment. She kisses him, she kisses him, and Sif does not tremble but it isn't something terribly far away. Lips communicate what her words never would: that she is as aimless here as he was.

[sorcerous]

And he accepts that, welcomes it, cradles her body above his. His fingers soothe and inflame, and his breath is lost in her lips.

[brosif]

Sif isn't sure when, but eventually she starts to move with Loki, rather than against him. She has fought by his side for a thousand years and watched his hands do incredible things. Seen his fingers thrum with magic, starting at slim wrists, making the long journey to rounded fingertips, as he whispers light, innocuous suggestions that set men to war.

Has hands, really, are the most dangerous part of him. Even here. Through memory alone she can picture them: long and lean, quick and quiet.

She closes her eyes, and breaths out slowly, lips half open. Her knees graze his hips as warmth collects at the core of her, replacing fear, replacing much. She sits on the edge, one stroke away, and buries her head in his neck.

"Loki."

Please.

[sorcerous]

He swallows her sounds and the air in her lungs, and his hand flattens on her back and his hips jerk up.

"Would you want my tongue?" he asks, breathlessly. "I would go down on you, I would," taste her in a way she could never erase from his senses. Have her in a way that penetration can't touch.

[brosif]

"Yes," comes out quietly, from her lips to his.

The offer is uncommon, in Sif's experience. When she takes someone to bed, fighting and having sex are nearly one in the same. Among all of the Aesir she knows in that manner, this is the case. Things are loud and passionate, with no note of delicacy to them. She enjoys that. But--

"Yes," she repeats, affirms, running her fingers across the pulse point in his neck. There can be passion in delicate things, too. Loki doesn't make love like an Aesir. She wonders how long he has known that.

[sorcerous]

He turns them over and tips her back. His fingers withdraw, and he closes his eyes, again, pressing a kiss between her ribs, another above her navel. He reaches out, takes her hand, and guides it into his hair -- so she can nudge him, whichever way she wants. It doesn't matter if she commands him, like this. He is the one in charge. He is the one who gives her pleasure.

Slim fingers part her vulvae and he licks, at first, in little, tentative things, like a cat. Tasting her.

[brosif]

She threads her hand through the hairs at the base of his neck. Her own hair must be covered in sweat, by now, and she absently expects the same from him. How often had he stayed clean as a child, while the rest of them came home at the end of the day, drenched in sweat and covered in mud? How often had they unknowingly teased him for a simple fact of biology?

She runs her thumb along the skin at the base of his hairline, urging him on. A moan, and she shifts her hips under him. With a press of her fingers, she urges him in closer.

"Harder." It is a struggle to keep her words even. "Don't tease."

[sorcerous]

It is not teasing that stays his hand, that keeps him back. Not teasing, just tentative feelings, hesitations, what-ifs.

But at her word, he moves. Cants her hips up, her thigh over his shoulder, tucked in the curve of his neck. His tongue against her, licking into her, sliding up to press flat against her clit. His hands do nothing but support her; his tongue needs no help. He knows what this is like, knows how to shift and flick in all the right ways.