[ He can no more pull away from her than a moth can avert its flightpath into the burning embrace of a flame; she says I don't know what it is to have the hands of a god and he thinks but I could show you, desperate to touch, desperate to chase that scent of roses and sandalwood across her skin and know where it pools.
Instead, he breathes. In, through his mouth, slightly opened; out through his nose, flush against hers. Loki opens his eyes.
Of course, her admission makes sense; a dangerous and dangerously pretty thing only becomes thus through some sort of suffering after all. He chastises himself for not seeing it immediately, but perhaps he can be forgiven for it. It's been an odd handful of hours since he first saved her on the battlefield; if even that long. ]
Is this better? [ He asks, voice cracking softly, letting go of her hand in order to bring both his bare hands up to frame her face, keep her there, but not so firmly that she couldn't pull away if she wished it.
Or is this worse, he doesn't say, as he half-lids his eyes and brushes his lips against hers. This is probably not what she meant, but she said she'd laughed, and felt nothing, and he wants to chase even the memory of that reality away.
Needs to pin himself down in this moment, hopefully to her. Something beautiful and wicked and sharp in all the ways he hopes to be on his best days and hates himself for managing on his worst.
He can't pull away. Perhaps he should. Perhaps this is not being better.
He's decided he doesn't care. If she doesn't stop him, he's going to kiss her. ]
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Instead, he breathes. In, through his mouth, slightly opened; out through his nose, flush against hers. Loki opens his eyes.
Of course, her admission makes sense; a dangerous and dangerously pretty thing only becomes thus through some sort of suffering after all. He chastises himself for not seeing it immediately, but perhaps he can be forgiven for it. It's been an odd handful of hours since he first saved her on the battlefield; if even that long. ]
Is this better? [ He asks, voice cracking softly, letting go of her hand in order to bring both his bare hands up to frame her face, keep her there, but not so firmly that she couldn't pull away if she wished it.
Or is this worse, he doesn't say, as he half-lids his eyes and brushes his lips against hers. This is probably not what she meant, but she said she'd laughed, and felt nothing, and he wants to chase even the memory of that reality away.
Needs to pin himself down in this moment, hopefully to her. Something beautiful and wicked and sharp in all the ways he hopes to be on his best days and hates himself for managing on his worst.
He can't pull away. Perhaps he should. Perhaps this is not being better.
He's decided he doesn't care. If she doesn't stop him, he's going to kiss her. ]