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[ Loki's skin is pale; he, once again, looks human, his eyes green, his hair dark. His fingers are restless, tapping. ] Shall we have a tale?

Here, I believe the appropriate beginning is, let's see... Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, there was a little world. It had no boundaries, but it was small enough that it needed no boundaries. More on that later, I certainly expect. This world was made by balance between order and chaos. Order created and arranged, and chaos introduced an element of randomness. Evolution. Each required the other to innovate.

But, then, Order isn't so very good at innovation, is it? Perhaps inevitable that one day Chaos would begin to dominate. The balance reels, and the world changes -- or perhaps it's that the world changes, and the balance tips. Either way, each avatar, one of order, one of chaos, are locked in eternal battle. Thorns began to spread, and so Order had to try, again, to reach beyond itself. Literally, this time.

As we stand: order reached to heroes, but could not cope with the element of instability the heroes produced. Thus, it boxed them into confined roles, shaved off the bits of them that would not fit.

Take care, heroes, for chaos would destroy everything -- but order would destroy you from within.

This is, as it stands, all I know. Let you ignorants be satisfied with that.

[ OOC: Thread between Sif and Loki below includes NSFW content. Be thyself warned. ]

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Ah. Well.

Is there anything that I can do to be...less distracting? While still being. [Naked :|] Present?

I don't believe that's in your nature.

Not as such, no.

I understand, then. If you would prefer more time alone to strengthen your work.

Edited 2012-08-28 04:02 (UTC)

What better way to strengthen it, might I ask, than to test my mettle?

Who am I to refute such a valid point?

[She looks from side to side. And then hangs her necklace at such an angle that only her face is in view of the orb.]

Where did you say you were?

My chambers, Lady Sif. I believe you know the way.

I do. As you know the way to mine.

[She shifts, canting her head to the side. The angle is a little awkward, and there is a distinct rustling of fabric against the chair.]

...shall I ask which you prefer?

It is not so much a matter of preferences as it is one of--

[Another shift. And a slight flush, across her neck, that Loki might recognize.]

--applied sciences. Testing your mettle, as it were.

Edited 2012-08-28 17:04 (UTC)

[ How she teases. ]

Come here, Sif. You will be glad you did.

Here, I am already-- [a sharp exhale. She grins, wickedly.]

Halfway to glad.

Edited 2012-08-30 15:55 (UTC)

A minx, you are.

[ He is somewhat short of breath. Hands tight. ]

Am I thus?

[She closes her eyes for a moment, expression hovering just on the cusp of pleasure.]

What a trial, for you.

[ He is breathless. ]

Sif.

[ He wants her here. ]

Loki.

[His name comes out nearly as a song. She smiles, as the heat builds. So many times she has borne arms to get the trickster at her mercy -- this is even more fulfilling.]

[ His skin changes. He lets it change, knowing that it's difficult to hold on now, knowing that he'll need that control later. Breathing sharp. He wants to look away, but he can't make himself. ]

[For a long moment, there is only: the sound of Sif's light breathing, and the rustling of skin on the fabric of the chair as she moves. The profile of the maiden with her eyes closed.

Others might put on a show, here. Preen or exaggerate, as it is for Loki's attention that she does this. But such falsities would suit them both ill.

It is a trait in their coupling she craves: that the more Sif is herself, the more he seems to desire her.]

Ah--

[she breathes out, so close. She opens her eyes, surprised to see his Jotunn form -- rather than a hindrance, the shock acts as something as a catalyst. Sif doesn't mask her want. She looks him in the eye, in his red eyes, as she comes.]

Loki.

[ And he flinches from that, from the honesty. He is frightened of it and drawn to it.

He is hard, now, but he refuses to touch himself. He is not in that habit. ]

If you were here, I would kiss your throat.

[Sif does not know how to disguise her desires. She never has. It's just that, until recently, he wasn't the subject of them. She stares back at him, a gravel to her tone.]

And how would you manage that, with me holding you down?

Ah, my Prince, don't you know?

I'm slippery as an eel.

And a half measure skinnier, to boot.

[She looks down. Watches the light from the orb cast shadows across her hands.]

You know truer names for me than that.

My Lady? My Warrioress?

May I suggest, "my physically superior comrade?"

"My infinitely more talented warrior?"

"My eminently more commanding leader?"

What about -- just 'mine'?

[The point to him, then. Sif's head snaps up, and she is unsure weather or not he is jesting.

(It comes, unbidden: he laughs as Midgard burns.)]

Ah. And who would you belong to, then?