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 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.

[sorcerous]

A little flinch from the muscles in his belly, but he breathes and he relaxes and he lets her in. He is tight as a maiden; he does not often let this part of himself be touched or used, and he wouldn't have now, if Sif hadn't asked for it particularly.

Should he not help her? He knows how it feels best... it is not precisely a woman's way.

So his fingers slip, and he guides her to curve and press up, just a bit, and -- there --

He feels it all the way through his length, like a jump of electricity; a guttural sound, and his cock begins to leak, precum close to dripping from the head.

[brosif]

She watches his movements, their movements, utterly transfixed. She touches him as he urges her to, and is surprised at the heat that coils in her belly in response.

Slowly, she moves her finger out, leaving him to his own ministrations. She grasps his cock, light but steady. When she thinks he is ready, she shifts up, positioning herself near the head.

“Are you—”

She knows very little of his sex. A sign that he’s too sensitive now, that it won’t be pleasurable, and she will see him to completion in other ways.

[sorcerous]

He doesn't know what she's trying to ask, but he nods, anyhow -- says, soft, "I want you."

[brosif]

A nod, then. She eases on top of him, hips arching up as she guides his cock--

Into her. Here they are.

"You have me," she says, breath hitching as she feels the whole of him.

[sorcerous]

He shudders and gasps, fighting for breath. Her body is supple, and tight, and strong. He twitches, a half-thrust up into her. He doesn't know if he should move, if she wants to control this, what to do.

[brosif]

There is a guttural moan in the back of her throat at the thrust. She leans closer to him, hips moving achingly slow until she is close enough to kiss.

She presses her mouth to his, and settles into a rhythm just a hair's breadth away from cruelty in its slowness. She doesn't mean to be. But she--

I mourned you, she thinks, pushing in with her tongue. Her fingers trace his jaw line, coming to cup the side of his face. She mourned him and he moves beneath her, feels very nearly a part of her, so alive throughout.