the-loki-laufeyson:

i-am-the-firechild:

the-loki-laufeyson:

i-am-the-firechild:

“Only almost?” she murmured, tipping her head to the side. “I must be doin’ it wrong, then. Tsk-tsk, all out of practise.” One hand came up to cup the back of his head, slipping her own fingers into his hair. A little shiver ran down her spine.

He leaned into the touch, as much as he tried to hide it.  The wine swirled and clouded his balance.  It had been so long…

Loki struggled vaguely to regain his composure, his dominance.  He tilted his chin up, looked down at her through lustful eyes and lightly pressed his fingers around her waist.  ”You…who know my secrets.  You who feel the very destruction of my soul…what could you possibly want with a man like me?” he whispered.

“Such a shadow must be thrown by a powerful light,” she responded. Her fingers curled into his scalp. “Let’s go find it, shall we?” Stretching up on her tiptoes, reaching with her whole body up the height difference, she pulled his head down and brushed her lips over his. “Forget destruction,” she whispered into his mouth. “Try creation.”

Loki mentally counted the drinks he had taken and used that to excuse himself falling into her embrace, kissing her hesitantly, then more and more forcefully.  His hands pressed against the small of her back, and he revelled in the pressure of her slight body against his.  He felt as if perhaps he had been bewitched; an enchantress possibly?  Powerful magic…?  He didn’t honestly care at the moment.  A faint sense of heat glowed from her, and he tasted it eagerly. 

“So it’s you who needs his inhibitions lowered,” she laughed softly. “Shall I climb you like a tree, or will you come down to me?” Every other word was punctuated by the touch of her mouth on skin: throat, collarbone, pulsepoint, jawline.

the-loki-laufeyson:

i-am-the-firechild:

the-loki-laufeyson:

i-am-the-firechild:

:raises an eyebrow at him: Oh, /I’m/ tragic? Don’t be absurd. But yes. If I … take in too much, it hurts. Convulsions, actually, not fire. You :looks away: your heart screams pain like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.

:eyes flicker downward: Please, don’t…:sigh:

I only mean that…to be cursed to carry the weight of others’ sentiment must be quite a burden.  I cannot imagine how you can stand it.

You did ask. Don’t ask if you don’t want the answer. :looks at him, hard-eyed: I’m your opposite in some ways, god of lies, born of ice. I’m the daughter of the fire, and I always speak truth.

Emotions don’t scare me. I’ve seen them all, I’ve tasted them all. It only hurts when I try to deny them.

:looks away, drinks again, speaking softly: Is that what this is about, then? You have a … sentiment you need carried?

:scoffs: I have no sentiment.  I am heavy with too many thoughts and not enough to do with them, I suppose.  Heavy with memory…expectation…I know not what.

Aren’t you supposed to tell me? :smiles weakly, takes another drink: You must have exquisite sentiment of your own then?

Oh, aye, I can tell you your … sentiments. But not always why, or what you would do with them. :swirls the wine in the glass: And yes, I feel, strongly. Overwhelmingly, sometimes. I can understand a desire to stop thinking.

But I would not be without it. :takes a clip out of her hair and starts to play with the river of it as it comes down over her shoulders: Just like my hair, it’s so much a part of my self-identity that to lose it would be to lose myself.

They tried, once. I had rather burn, suffer, for a thousand years than not feel.