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

[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.

[brosif]

She lets out a small yelp of surprise at the sudden movement -- most men are more tentative, here. She thinks, for a moment, that there are definite advantages to having a shapeshifter for a partner.

Then she thinks nothing at all. Her heel digs into his back and the hand at his neck becomes erratic. Fingers twist harshly in his hair, not to control him but for want of something to grip.

The air is cool at her back, and warm everywhere else. She opens her eyes and it is the sight of him -- focused, attuned to the small rises of her hips, grazes of her thighs -- that does her in. When she comes, it is in a slow, wordless cry, pushed out with every crest of his clever tongue.

[sorcerous]

He eases her through the whole of it, the shocks that shake her, and then he presses a kiss to her hip, presses his cheek there. It is sinking in: the magnitude of the thing they have done, that they are doing.

He doubts.

[brosif]

She doesn't. There is no room for it, now. She looks down at him, and a well of affection builds up in her chest. She doesn't say anything. Just smooths his hair back while her breathing evens out.

She brings her thumb to his cheek, trying to etch away any worry there that she sees.

"Come here," she says, hoarsely.

[sorcerous]

He wipes his lips on his hand, as though half-shamed: this act is not something the Aesir truly accept. And Loki knows that.

But he lets her pull him up and touches his lips to hers.

[brosif]

She deepens the kiss, pushing her tongue past lips and teeth until she meets his. There's a foreign taste there that must be her. It's a strange sensation, but not at all an unwelcome one.

She pulls back, and smiles. He need not worry of any shame from her.

"I think...it will be rather hard not to blush from now on, when you are called Silvertongue."

[sorcerous]

Wonder, in his eyes, then. That she does not immediately regret touching him, having him.

Though she has not truly had him yet.

"Have I never told you the story," he murmurs, "of that name's origin?" A wicked half-smile; the truth is that it was given to him for his oratory abilities, but it wouldn't stop Loki from embellishing as he wished.

[brosif]

She laughs, into his shoulder, before drawing her chin up in thought and giving the matter serious consideration.

"Somehow, our conversations have never breached the subject. I'd assumed it was something to do with a spell gone wrong."

Another smile, as she traces nonsensical patterns across his torso.

[sorcerous]

He twitches at her touch, catches her hand. Certainly not because he's ticklish or anything.

"What maiden would want the world to know," he murmurs, "that it was at a tongue that she fell, that she cried for pleasure, that she learned the joys of her body? What maiden wouldn't want to hide that, in the guise of a joke, a nickname...?"

He is jesting.

[brosif]

Her eyes widen with wicked realization. Loki Odinson, susceptible to such a light touch. She files the information away, to be used later.

"Ah," she says, somberly. She bites the inside of her cheek, to maintain a certain countenance. "Good for the maidens of the world, then, that you are so renowned for your discretion. Your sense of subtlety."

[sorcerous]

"Perhaps I just look subtle," he murmurs. "Next to Thor..." And his hand brushes her hair back from her face. What freedom it is -- he can touch her, here, and there are no bounds of propriety to hold him back.

He cups her face with both hands, and words stick on his tongue. There is a tight, terrible lock in his chest, and he remembers the light on the curve of her cheek, Fandral's hand on her arm as she surged at Loki, at the throne. The weight of Gungnir in his hand, and Sif's fury: not just at his decision, but at his betrayal.

"Sif, I am," and the lock in his chest just tightens. He breathes and shudders. "I am so sorry."

[brosif]

This is not the first apology that Sif has ever heard Loki make. They spill easily enough from his lips. Apologies for mischief he has preformed, or plans to. Apologies on behalf of his friends, of his people. Words are his weapons, and pride rarely keeps him from wielding them.

This is not the first apology she has ever heard him make. But it is one that she never expected to hear. The weight of it sits on her chest and feels tangible between them.

She brings her hand up to rest on his cheek. To bridge the connection between them. When she speaks, her voice is strained.

"This land is very strange. I cannot trust anything in it, down to the very water that falls from the sky. I need...I need to know that I have one here whom I can trust. One person who is on my side."

[sorcerous]

He stares at her, marvels at her.

"You speak of trust, and you know it has been weeks alone since I fell." No, no, she cannot ask this of him. He cannot give it. "No. I cannot be that for you."

The wind does not make promises; the wild does not hold steady. Loki is an intricate knit of lies, and he cannot be trusted.

[brosif]

And yet, she does trust him. He has laid himself before her in every way possible. He has put his throat to her knife. He has fought for her, bled for her, nearly died for her.

In actions, he has already gained her trust. But his words have not yet caught up with his deeds.

In Asgard, here is where she would have become caught up in words alone. Here is where she would have left. But she was speaking truly -- she needs him. There are not so many here whom she cares for. After a long moment, she nods.

"Then I will not ask it of you."

She will find other ways to survive. She always has.

[sorcerous]

His heart is burnt and bruised, every touch upon it a searing agony. Every molding hand, every do-good who would save him --

But then she says she will not ask, and there is a flood of numb relief within him. Perhaps, with that reassurance, it will not hurt him so much if he lets her touch. He fears he would find himself lost if she abandoned him entirely, and he fears, too, that he risks that every time he speaks.

His hands drop to her waist and he shifts them, pulling her on top of him and settling back against the grass.

"Not many have had Loki beneath them," he tells her, truly. Not like this, certainly, not where they could see his face. "What goes next is in your hands."

[brosif]

She would be clumsy, with his heart. Perhaps she is clumsy still. There are certain things that Sif excels at, and certain things that unknowingly make her tend towards casual cruelty. Selfishness. Love is the latter.

She takes the offer in the spirit that it is intended. Plies him with her hands. But there is a simple fact: that her hands have never met a sex like Loki's. There are two of him, but she has only one able wrist.

It is the womanly part of him that holds her attention first. She draws the pad of her thumb over his female sex, a light, steady pressure against his clit. She pushes a finger in and marvels at the wetness, watching his face for any reaction.

[sorcerous]

He goes shocked and still: not afraid of her touch, but stunned that she would want to explore this over that. The breath rushes out of him at the penetration, his jaw gone slack and his legs parted, trembling-still, afraid to push for more and unwilling to pull away. His hand drifts and touches her wrist, too light to interfere with her movements.

[brosif]

If she is to have him, she wants to have all of him. She wants to make him cry out in a thousand different ways, to leave an image that would grip at his memory when he might try to deny this night.

It's a possessive truth: that she wants, a little, to wreck him.

But not in a way he wouldn't enjoy. She notes the hand, notes that he doesn’t stop her. She draws out her pace. Concentrated sweeps of her thumb, followed by long, punctuated pushes of her finger. Careful of her wrist, she rests her other hand on top of his torso, remembering that he is sensitive there.