eswareinmal | (no subject)

[ 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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[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.]