eswareinmal | (no subject)

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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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You are not always kind to those that love you. To those whom you love.

Kindness is not in a serpent's nature, my lady.

No. No, it is not. Good that you are a man, then.

[She moves in still. Head angled under his, eyes intent.]

If I love you, then I would not set out to hurt you. If you love me, then you would grant me that belief.

[ He turns away. His hands tremble; he grips then tight. ]

It is too much to ask.

[ He does not specify what is too much: that he love her? That he say it? That he grant her what she asks? ]

I ask nothing of you, Loki.

[She is steady, where he trembles. And she is tired. Tired of a exercising a patience of which she is not in natural possession. Tired of being the one to wait, to give.

She rests hand on his back. It goes through the illusion, and settles flat against his skin.]

I only speak a truth. If I held your love, so too would I hold at least a modicum of your trust.

[ He shudders, a sudden and convulsive thing, as her hand touches his skin. ]

Trust is as silence, Sif. Speak of it, and it may be broken.

[ He trusts her with his back. But not with his heart. ]

You do not control my speech, Loki.

[Another fact, and spoken as such. She is not the one who brought love into the conversation. Surely, trust is no more taboo. The former comes easier to her, guarded though she keeps it.

She drops a kiss to his shoulder, half expecting him to flinch at the contact.]

In thought or deed. No more than I control yours.

[ Impulse takes him. Movement that he does not plan, does not consider, with no weighty thought on its consequences. Just cups her jaw in his hands and yanks her into a harsh and wanting kiss. Pressing his lips to hers like he could only find air from her lungs, fingers tight in her hair as though he fears that she will pull away and disappear. ]

[Now that she has given speech to truth -- let the deeds that never happened air out in the space around them -- there is a moment where his breath catches in her lungs and she thinks she can smell the soot as it falls from the city skyline. While he looks on, agent of chaos and powerless spectator all at once.

But no. There is only Loki. The taste of him, familiar now. The smell: a combination of the two of them, more familiar still. She grabs at him, hungrily. Fingernails dig into skin as lean, muscular legs move with purpose, pushing them both back towards the bed.]

[ He goes, his clothes dissolving into air, and his touch is fervent, passionate, raw. He himself does not know why. ]

[Sif is more methodical, in her movements. No less enamored, but more channeled -- taking his passionate, frantic energy guiding it. Not unlike the more complex of their battle formations. Though usually, it is Sif that gives way to battle lust and Loki that exercises control.

She pushes him to the bed and follows soon after. With little fanfare, she wrenches his arms above his head, deep into the mattress. Holding them, wrists together, with one hand while she takes his cock into her fist with the other.

She doesn't break eye contact while she moves -- she knows his body well enough now that she has no need to.]

[ His eyes have gone dark and vulnerable. And as she touches him, they close, and he arches up -- a convulsive, involuntary movement. He can't help but crave her touch. He craves her all too often, and all too keenly, and he hates himself for that weakness and he doesn't want it to stop, either.

Hates being held down, and doesn't want to escape.

He feels all too exposed, and lets his head fall to the side, lips parted, as though he could avoid what he sees of himself reflected in her eyes. ]

[Were she less in control, now, Sif's throat could goes dry at the image before her. Loki prone. Arms raised, neck out. Weak with want.

Instead, she works him slowly, running callused fingers along the shaft before swiping a thumb across the head. She leans down, her own body held inches aloft his.

She brings her mouth to the pulse point at his bared neck, but does not touch. Does not kiss. Simply breathes, soft and warm, watching his face intently.

The grip on his wrist does not loosen, and the hand on is cock is agonizingly, purposefully, slow.]

You have grown skilled at torment.

[ His voice is struck through with want. His hips rise and he tenses against her, though not to escape. ]

[Words. His domain, and she does not care to enter it. Viper-quick, she bites down on his neck, hard enough to bruise. Then, she runs a tongue over the space where the mark will soon be, while increasing the pressure of her grip.

At the corner of his mouth she places one dry, surprisingly chaste, kiss.]

Hush.

[ And so he does. His eyes close, giving himself to her grip and her hands, his chin tipped back to expose his neck. ]

[There is something innate in Sif that is urged onward, at his assent. Something that looks at him laid out underneath her and thinks yes. This is right.

She sucks, bites, along the pulse points in his neck. Her grip remains steady, building. Until she shifts back without warning and guides him inside of her. She grinds down, hips moving swiftly, clit brushing against his own female sex.

The grip on his wrists does not falter.]

[ He arches up against her, his fingers tightening on hers. Maybe an attempt to take some of the control of the pace back for himself, maybe a reaction of pure pleasure. He's not entirely sure which it is, himself. ]

[That won't do at all, Sif thinks. But there are ways to control beyond pure restraint.

She increases her speed, grinding down, thighs gripping his with enough pressure that she suspects they will both bear marks tomorrow. While she moves, the grip on his wrists remains unchanged. His movements gone seemingly unacknowledged.

And then, her hands fly. His arms are abandoned, and with one deft hand she pushes his chest back against the bed, putting her entire weight into it. The other hand goes to his female sex. She touches him swiftly, applies pressure in the places he's shown her, the places she has seen grant him the most pleasure.

Through this, her hips remain moving, unrelenting.]

[ And he cries out. She dares -- she is the only one who has ever dared, ever moved so boldly. Sigyn too shy, Angrboda too concerned with her own pleasure, and other partners hardly enough to even make a mark on him.

His teeth dig into his cheek, and he makes a sound that is certainly not a whimper, high in his throat. ]

[The whimper only spurs Sif onward -- the fingers against his chest clench. Her nails leave deep indentations. Move movement from him, and they will most assuredly draw blood.

Her pace continues. If Sif is moved, if she is struck with want herself, it is pushed back. Locked away in her mind -- one pleasure set aside in favor of another.]

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