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allthisshitisweird2021-02-07 07:33 pm
faderifting) wrote in allthisshitisweird2021-02-07 07:33 pm
Entry tags:
TEST DRIVE MEME!
TEST DRIVE MEME
While in some alternate, tidier timeline, the War against the Elder One ended years ago, you're not in that timeline. It's 9:46, and there's a war raging in northern Orlais, where the Chantry, aided by the Inquisition, marshalling Orlais and the faithful of Southern Thedas into a new Exalted March against the army of demon-bound Wardens, Red Templars, Venatori loyalists, and darkspawn Corypheus has amassed over the last four years. Rifts are still scattered across the continent, periodically spitting out strangers from strange worlds with green-glowing anchors embedded in their hands. There's no Herald of Andraste to save Thedas. Someone else is going to have to do it.
You're part of (or allied with, recently hired by, imprisoned by, etc.) a new organization that's an offshoot of the Inquisition, dubbed Riftwatch, that consists mainly of the otherworldly new arrivals, rebels and Wardens, and other people who want to prevent the apocalypse without necessarily marching under the Chantry's banner to do it. Their headquarters is an island fortress called the Gallows—formerly a Circle of Magi, more formerly a prison for slaves, but its new occupants have done a good job removing the more grotesque reminders of that past and making the place livable.
Maybe you're here because you want to help. Maybe you need the money (though there isn't much of it). Maybe you acquired an anchor and sticking around is the only way to prevent your hand from falling off. Maybe you've been sent by the Chantry or some other entity to keep an eye on everyone—they're rumored to be a lot of weirdos and troublemakers. Or maybe you're a new rifter and just going where the nice people with swords tell you that you need to go.
OOC: We post Test Drives fairly infrequently! But current players are strongly encouraged to track new top-level comments to the post so they don't miss new arrivals, and new folks should not be shy about commenting just because the post has been up for a while.
I. KIRKWALL: Even when enormous evil darkspawn are trying to take over the known world and you and your colleagues might be the only ones who can truly stop him, you can't work all the time. And when you aren't working, Kirkwall is there for you, with its dingy Lowtown taverns, its flashy Hightown establishments, its market stalls and street musicians and underground network of old mining tunnels inhabited by the disenfranchised and a few violent criminals. Or maybe you can work all the time, and you're in the city to do some official shopping, keep an eye on a suspicious character, or show a potential financial backer a good time. The city is grey, cold, and in places vaguely sinister—but it's home.
II. SUNDERMOUNT: North of Kirkwall lies the highest peak of the nearby mountain range. In more ancient days it was rumored to be the site of unspeakable horrors, but at present prowled by more speakable horrors, like possessed skeletons, shadow warriors, and the rare revenant or varterral. And you've been sent to prowl along with them, inside the winding caves that cut through the peak or over the snow currently coating the paths that wind around it. The reasons vary: maybe you're in search of medicinal herbs, maybe you're tracking a party of suspicious travelers lurking outside Kirkwall, or maybe you just took a wrong turn off the road trying to travel in or out of the city.
III. ORLAIS: Further south, Orlais is weathering the winter and the invasion of its northern territories in its usual style—which is why you're here, in a snow-blanketed manor just outside Val Royeaux, representing Riftwatch at the invitation of a gathering of masked nobility who have gathered to discuss ways to support the war effort while not starving their serfs and alienages. And to play parlor games. Maybe have an occasional chamber concert. Your role may be to actively participate in the planning, or it may be to be charming and noncommital while observing, or it may be to provide an example of a well-behaved rifter/elf/mage/Qunari/Fereldan. Regardless: your best behavior is expected, but that doesn't mean you can't sneak into the Duchess' very well-appointed library at night or slip away to try sliding down the length of a frozen reflecting pool in the gardens.
IV. THE FRONT: Riftwatch is no longer part of the Inquisition or directly engaged in the war that it, the Chantry's faithful Exalted Marchers, and Orlais are fighting against an invading Tevinter and Ander force in northern Orlais. But frequently enough, Riftwatch's business—delivering helpful intelligence, spending quality time with prisoners of war that might have information, assisting soldiers with a rift they've found too close to their camps, or passing through on the way somewhere else—requires passing near or through the frontline drawn through northern Orlais and now northern Nevarra, where it's possible to encounter enemy bands of dracolisk-mounted soldiers, fire-throwing mages, or particularly nasty darkspawn with red lyrium growing from their bodies.
V. SEND A MESSAGE: Each member of Riftwatch (or rifter, or ally) is assigned a blue crystal, small enough to wear around the neck, that can transmit voice messages, as well as an enchanted book tied to that crystal that can be used to exchange written messages. They're secure enough to discuss the war, if you'd like to get down to business, but loosely controlled enough to ask a question or play a game with only a few rolled eyes from people who hate fun.
VI. WILDCARD: From the Gallows' library to the pirate islands off the coast, from Hightown's high-priced market stalls to the bloody frontlines of the war, Thedas is yours to explore.
While in some alternate, tidier timeline, the War against the Elder One ended years ago, you're not in that timeline. It's 9:46, and there's a war raging in northern Orlais, where the Chantry, aided by the Inquisition, marshalling Orlais and the faithful of Southern Thedas into a new Exalted March against the army of demon-bound Wardens, Red Templars, Venatori loyalists, and darkspawn Corypheus has amassed over the last four years. Rifts are still scattered across the continent, periodically spitting out strangers from strange worlds with green-glowing anchors embedded in their hands. There's no Herald of Andraste to save Thedas. Someone else is going to have to do it.
You're part of (or allied with, recently hired by, imprisoned by, etc.) a new organization that's an offshoot of the Inquisition, dubbed Riftwatch, that consists mainly of the otherworldly new arrivals, rebels and Wardens, and other people who want to prevent the apocalypse without necessarily marching under the Chantry's banner to do it. Their headquarters is an island fortress called the Gallows—formerly a Circle of Magi, more formerly a prison for slaves, but its new occupants have done a good job removing the more grotesque reminders of that past and making the place livable.
Maybe you're here because you want to help. Maybe you need the money (though there isn't much of it). Maybe you acquired an anchor and sticking around is the only way to prevent your hand from falling off. Maybe you've been sent by the Chantry or some other entity to keep an eye on everyone—they're rumored to be a lot of weirdos and troublemakers. Or maybe you're a new rifter and just going where the nice people with swords tell you that you need to go.
OOC: We post Test Drives fairly infrequently! But current players are strongly encouraged to track new top-level comments to the post so they don't miss new arrivals, and new folks should not be shy about commenting just because the post has been up for a while.
I. KIRKWALL: Even when enormous evil darkspawn are trying to take over the known world and you and your colleagues might be the only ones who can truly stop him, you can't work all the time. And when you aren't working, Kirkwall is there for you, with its dingy Lowtown taverns, its flashy Hightown establishments, its market stalls and street musicians and underground network of old mining tunnels inhabited by the disenfranchised and a few violent criminals. Or maybe you can work all the time, and you're in the city to do some official shopping, keep an eye on a suspicious character, or show a potential financial backer a good time. The city is grey, cold, and in places vaguely sinister—but it's home.
II. SUNDERMOUNT: North of Kirkwall lies the highest peak of the nearby mountain range. In more ancient days it was rumored to be the site of unspeakable horrors, but at present prowled by more speakable horrors, like possessed skeletons, shadow warriors, and the rare revenant or varterral. And you've been sent to prowl along with them, inside the winding caves that cut through the peak or over the snow currently coating the paths that wind around it. The reasons vary: maybe you're in search of medicinal herbs, maybe you're tracking a party of suspicious travelers lurking outside Kirkwall, or maybe you just took a wrong turn off the road trying to travel in or out of the city.
III. ORLAIS: Further south, Orlais is weathering the winter and the invasion of its northern territories in its usual style—which is why you're here, in a snow-blanketed manor just outside Val Royeaux, representing Riftwatch at the invitation of a gathering of masked nobility who have gathered to discuss ways to support the war effort while not starving their serfs and alienages. And to play parlor games. Maybe have an occasional chamber concert. Your role may be to actively participate in the planning, or it may be to be charming and noncommital while observing, or it may be to provide an example of a well-behaved rifter/elf/mage/Qunari/Fereldan. Regardless: your best behavior is expected, but that doesn't mean you can't sneak into the Duchess' very well-appointed library at night or slip away to try sliding down the length of a frozen reflecting pool in the gardens.
IV. THE FRONT: Riftwatch is no longer part of the Inquisition or directly engaged in the war that it, the Chantry's faithful Exalted Marchers, and Orlais are fighting against an invading Tevinter and Ander force in northern Orlais. But frequently enough, Riftwatch's business—delivering helpful intelligence, spending quality time with prisoners of war that might have information, assisting soldiers with a rift they've found too close to their camps, or passing through on the way somewhere else—requires passing near or through the frontline drawn through northern Orlais and now northern Nevarra, where it's possible to encounter enemy bands of dracolisk-mounted soldiers, fire-throwing mages, or particularly nasty darkspawn with red lyrium growing from their bodies.
V. SEND A MESSAGE: Each member of Riftwatch (or rifter, or ally) is assigned a blue crystal, small enough to wear around the neck, that can transmit voice messages, as well as an enchanted book tied to that crystal that can be used to exchange written messages. They're secure enough to discuss the war, if you'd like to get down to business, but loosely controlled enough to ask a question or play a game with only a few rolled eyes from people who hate fun.
VI. WILDCARD: From the Gallows' library to the pirate islands off the coast, from Hightown's high-priced market stalls to the bloody frontlines of the war, Thedas is yours to explore.
no subject
She loves a version of him. Knows that version well, and he's not so different from himself that a great deal of that knowledge translates rather neatly.
While this is nothing like his interactions with Sylvie, he wonders what the princess of Asgard would make of it. Probably she would roll her eyes at his uncertainties in the face of at least part of what he might have always wanted. To be known. To be seen. To be loved as himself. To not be alone.
He swallows. There is no alcohol in his mouth, and so he solves that problem backwards. Give him a moment to swallow again. ]
I hope he knew how fortunate that was for him.
[ Her answer to the first question allows him the opportunity to recollect himself from the brink of demanding how he'd done it, managed to have her fall in love with him, and would she be willing to fall in love again with a slightly different set of problems, but only slightly? He blinks, and smiles, feeling very exposed even by her little joke.
It's an olive branch and he grasps it even as the fact that it's been offered terrifies him. ]
But of course. [ Another drink. ] There would be no reason to continue to be separated, in that case.
no subject
[ The other potential truths of her husband’s absence that opens the door for are ones that have made her weep before, and although she still has the handkerchief, she would truly rather not set to crying again. Not when she is afraid of how desperately she wants to be cared for, how quickly she might let herself fall into the slightest kindness, the barest brush of this man’s hand.
And so, for weal or woe, she must lean upon taking her own rather stiff drink and turning towards the path he’d managed to pull back from in order to exchange the threat of tears for something softer. ]
I do not think either of us thought ourselves fortunate, to begin with. Love is terrifying, when one only knows it as a sharp thing, wielded to harm. As an unforgivable weakness in societies that allow for none.
I shrieked my confession at him in a fury and he laughed because he did not believe me.
[ That her eyes dance with fond mirth when she says so perhaps speaks to how far they had travelled since. ]
It was very romantic.
no subject
Loki takes another drink and looks away towards the fire. Perhaps it's better if he doesn't try to figure it out now. The story Lexie tells makes him smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. ]
That, I can understand. [ Laughing because he wouldn't believe it; she's right to compare love to a weapon. He doesn't think he was wrong to tell Sylvie that love is a dagger, despite her response.
Thinking of that version of himself makes his stomach drop, a bit. What would he do if she turned up here? Best to consider it... later. ] Still. [ He gestures between them. ] It must have taken a while to convince him of the truth of it.
no subject
A very poor decision on your part, really, he’d said.
Not in that, she’d replied as she kissed him with the kind of softness that can shatter, the kind she’d thought was lost to her. Never in that. ]
I am a persuasive woman.
[ She had meant for it to be light and matter-of-fact… but the half-dream of her memory combined with the way it knots in her chest that his smile is absent from his eyes makes it come out low and intent instead and Alexandrie’s eyes widen before she drops her gaze to the cup in her hands with flustered alacrity.
This isn’t fair. Not to her, not to him. Not to anyone.
She clears her throat quietly. ]
Has… anyone convinced you?
[ Now she is sneaking a furtive sidelong look. ]
That you are worthy of being loved?
no subject
It's on-topic, after all, and the convections of conversation mean that it's time for the ball to be in his court, so to speak, and yet. If someone demanded he explain his hesitation, the fact that he draws breath in order to lie to her
and then the moment for a glib response passes and he's blinked, once, remembering Mobius,
his inability to say anything of substance to Sylvie before being erased from time, the death of his mother that was his own doing, the destruction of Asgard, he's not sure he'd be able to explain away why that doesn't happen. What comes out instead of a haughty dismissal of the need, or even a shy glance in return is another hard swallow and the words: ]
There wasn't enough time.
[ He doesn't... know. If it would have worked, or how much time it would have taken, or what he really would've said to Sylvie that could have changed anything, if it would have helped or hindered to have Thor involved, if this is any different. This place, Thedas, and its fallen gods and plagues and living stones and magic and whispering demons and forced tranquility and a woman who loves a man who is just like him but perhaps nothing like him, because at some point he walked away.
He blinks again, and raises the cup to his lips, before refocusing his attention on Lexie instead of staring blindly at her features as if they could explain his own behavior to him. ]
no subject
And what he surfaces to deliver— and after, returned to thought, how he looks at her face as if it might know where what he looks for has gone— ]
Oh.
[ It is more sigh than word. Involuntary, and full of heartache for him; for the life of losses and almosts that 'not enough time' always seems to mean.
Slowly she bends to set her cup aside, to unfold herself and stand so she can tentatively pull her seat closer to his. To allow her to then carefully resettle the blanket over both of their shoulders if he'll allow her to, all the while watching, ready to stop moving at the slightest indication she'll startle him.
When she sits, softly: ]
I am sorry. Time to be loved is a terrible thing to lose.
no subject
Yet that version isn't here is he?
Besides, to reject her gentleness would be to presume he doesn't want whatever she is offering, even if he's not entirely certain he can see it clearly at this moment; but it's offered, and he does want it. So he stays still as she brings her chair closer, except to take sips from his cup, and decides that while self-control is probably useful to some people in some situations?
He has no need for it. Definitely not now.
So he leans in Lexie's direction a bit, takes in the scent of her, the warmth of another body close to his own. He doesn't look her in the eye, instead focusing on his hands; he doesn't think he could stand to keep the tears out of his own if he did. ]
I wasted the time I had, [ he admits quietly. So much time, moreso than most humans could comprehend as a lifetime. ] And didn't realize the rest was so... limited.
no subject
After a moment, carefully: ]
Even if you feel it wasted, it... [ she stops, tries again. ] That something ended, it is proof. Proof that it had a beginning. You cannot grieve the loss of a thing you did not, for at least one glorious moment, hold.
But... [ she begins, then trails to silence. Looks at his hands too. There is something helpless and fragile in her voice when she continues, murmurs, ]
There is never enough time. There cannot be enough.
[ That the world turns now is something anathema to her. That the battle will end, and the rest of Riftwatch return to camp with wounds that need tending, with the noise of their conversation. That there will be reports to be given and food to cook and wood to chop. That the sun will set, that her body will tire, that at some point they will be obliged to part and this little bounded space of theirs will break... it makes something in her cling desperately to the moment, fills her chest with an unvoiced cry of piteous childlike denial.
She leans then, too, enough to touch her shoulder to his before closing her eyes to banish the rest of the world. ]
no subject
He is, in these moments, acutely aware of his own mortality in a way that's never struck him before. Coming to Thedas changed him, though he cannot say if it is just in the mind or in the body as well.
He could, actually, but he's currently in denial of the new limitations to his once-great power.
She leans and he allows himself to just sit there for a while, to take in the reprieve from his own thoughts and the war ongoing, from worrying about the TVA and Sylvie and Mobius and what it means to be here instead of a place where either of those powers can reach.
One of his hands untangle themselves from holding his cup, and comes to rest, palm up, on her knee. ]
If there's never enough time... [ A breath. He believes her when she says this, but: ] How do I make what I have count?
no subject
Through taking the chances that are offered.
It's likely a time will come when she would like to be able to say that she hesitated. That she paused and thought about everything that it would mean to her, to him, to her husband, to Byerly, or even that she paused to think about what conclusions this Loki might draw about her; but the only time that passes before her fingers lightly brush the length of his palm and spread to lace with his is what was necessary to free her hand from the thin leather glove that covered it.
Alexandrie smiles, small and soft, and lets her head rest on his shoulder. Lets that be her answer. ]
no subject
It's probably terrible he hopes her husband is in no position to come fight him about how he feels in this moment — like a very small and fragile thing held together primarily by the touch of one Lady Alexandrie Lucette Seraphine Arienne; like he'd draw blood over the ability to remain there.
It’s too good a thing not to be inherently dangerous in some way.
At some point in the ensuing quiet Loki turns his head and places a kiss in her hair, ignoring any mud or gore that might have marred the strands.
He's hesitated on so many things in recent memory; this feels like a small but important gesture. ]
no subject
Tell me of yourself?
[ She brushes her thumb over his, absently tries to remember if it feels the same. Lets the thought float away. Watches the fire. ]
I want to know what is different. What is yours.
no subject
I'm a frost giant from another planet.
[ That's certainly one place to begin from. ]
Not that I tend to look it, on most days. I was adopted by King Odin and Queen Freya of the Asgardian people. Raised alongside their firstborn son, Thor. As his brother. As his shadow. I learned magic from Freya and wordsmithing from Odin, though I never felt accepted by the latter. They did not tell me I was adopted, you see, and when I learned of it I... didn't take it very well.
[ Quite the understatement. ]
For me, Asgard is more than just a family name, a small set of people united under that banner. It is a planet, a people, with millennia of history.
A people who I never felt accepted me, but they were all the home I had.
[ He pauses, uncertain how to continue without making himself seem monstrous while still remaining honest. Not a problem he usually finds himself having, but these are strange times after all. ]
I tried... to overtake a planet called Earth, full of humans, to find a source of power called an Infinity Stone. I was defeated, with my brother's help, I escaped, and then... I learned that I was a deviation from something called the Sacred Timeline. [ He sounds rather disdainful of that. ] Where I'm supposed to go on to betray my people, cause Freya's death, later bring about the destruction of my homeland, and die in front of Thor.
He goes on to continue to be a hero, of course. [ Loki shakes his head a little. ]
The only reason I wasn't erased from time there on the spot was that they wanted my help in hunting another version of myself down. Her name is Sylvie. We ended up united against the common enemy, but I was erased from time and woke up here before I could be of much use to her.
no subject
Born something else, unknowing. She wonders if the hesitation between I and didn't take it very well contains something akin to the consumptive rage and self-loathing that had caused the rift between her and her lord that had finally been sewn with his hands— bruised and torn from madly trying to pull the bloody-written accusations of his monstrosity from the walls as the Fade flowed through the Gallows, coalescing into fear and memory— in hers to let her love him.
Grown in the ever lengthening shadow of their golden elder brothers, magic taught by their mothers, fathers whose approval seemed ever remote.
There it deviates. She wonders if her husband would have done as Corypheus does now, if he had been given the chance. Rip the world asunder with an artifact for the gain of power and dominion. To pull himself free from his brother’s undertow he might have… but he had not. That, and the blow of its failure in part at Thor’s hands, belongs to this man.
And the promised future? Her husband had in a way betrayed his people, fighting for the South. In wedding her, a magicless daughter of the empire with whom his own shared a bloodsoaked ancient enmity. His mother had been murdered in front of him— in part because he and Thor had turned rebel— and he could do nothing to prevent her death, had blamed himself. Perhaps he works his homeland’s destruction even now, and the last...
Thor would have told her, would have found a way to. Thor, who had, before she had married his brother, invited her to stand Tevinter's vigil as a wife when they had thought Loki dead, knows what exists between them. He may not have understood it, but Thor doesn't need to understand things to accept them because the firstborn son of Asgard trusts the world in a way his brother does not.
(It is not the same. Cannot be. She will not let it be.)
The rest— escape, being used by some other force like a hunting dog to catch another self, rebellion, erasure leading to waking here—is this Loki’s.
There is so much. And it sounds, save Sylvie, as if he has been alone.
She lifts her head at the end. Lets the blanket slip from her shoulders as she stands and moves so she can touch his cheek with her free hand, bend to press her lips to his forehead, rest her own there, and whisper into the small space between them. ]
Thank you.
no subject
[ It comes out softer than it might have otherwise, his own tones lowered to match her whisper, but the subtle back notes of derision are there. Not for her, or even for her thanks; for himself, certainly. For editing the truth down to a distilled spirit, centuries of poor, petty behavior sublimated into a handful of words.
It got him what he wanted, didn't it?
So now it is time to be terrified of its loss.
He tilts his face into her touch before brushing his nose against hers. He sighs and keeps himself very still. This is dangerous. He's stumbling in the dark, knives out, going much too quickly to avoid impaling himself on the blades, but he doesn't care.
He plotted, it got him nothing. He acted, it got him nothing. He paused in the wrong moment and lost everything.
He knows there's a chasm before him. That he's running out of solid ground. He can't even tell if he's still running or if he's stood still.
At some point, he closed his eyes. ]
I've been a monster, a petty tyrant. I've betrayed people I would like to call friends. I'm not good at being anything else.
[ There. He's nicked himself now. But she has to understand on some level. He has to know she understands. That he's probably worse than the man she's known, if only for the nature of access and power.
One man in a nation can wreak havoc. One prince in a nation can destroy other nations. One god can destroy worlds. ]
no subject
Point by point by point they take each other and make no move to retreat. Alexandrie better settles her hand against his cheek to match the tilt of his face, lets her own eyes flutter closed. ]
I do not know what it is to have the hands of a god, but I know what it is to have hands made bloody and cruel by fear, mistrust, and loneliness so numb and vast that I felt nothing when I wrought the brutal useless ruin of those around me; some for vengeance, some simply because I wished to show my claws. What it is to laugh, and feel nothing because I had buried everything such a life broke in me until I was more cairn than woman.
[ She moves her head a little to nose against him; more than a brush, but still gentle. ]
We do not need to be good.
[ There is something of an earnest plea for his understanding in it. Or, at the least, that he not pull away. ]
Only, with each moment, a little better than we were.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
More than that: half a moment after his lips touch hers her hands are buried in his hair and she is pulling him to her with trembling fingers, muffling the end of the little involuntary cry that tears loose from her against his mouth, and there is nothing else; nothing in her world but the places where they touch, the sudden overwhelming surge of her need for there to be more of them. The quiet keen of distress she will make through her nose when she can't think well enough to figure out how. ]
no subject
That's some sort of miracle, surely.
(He knows there's definitely a myriad of reasons for this, including and definitely not limited to the husband she hasn't heard from in seven months, but he does. Not. Care.)
No, instead she makes these sounds, the first of which he nearly misses in the newness of kissing her, the second of which he does not miss at all, moving his hands from her face to her shoulders to her waist and then pulling her into his lap. He wants more. Craves it. But he's aware that there are people not too far around them, that he can't peel her out of her leather armor (good colors, by the way), at least not here and not now.
He can still kiss her though, and does, possessive and insistent, mouth opening to allow his tongue to lick against her lips, pulling her bottom one in between his teeth. ]
Lexie, [ he breathes, heavy against her mouth, but there's nothing else to say, nothing else to demand of her in this moment. ]
starts tapdancing along the sfw line~
It’s not enough.
She moves. Braces herself on his shoulders, trusting he’ll help smooth the motion the moment he gathers she makes it, and lifts herself enough from his lap that she can writhe her way into straddling him, wrapping the side of the blanket left hanging loose by her departure around them to mask the way she slowly drags her hips against his; one arm still around him, fingers splayed on his shoulder blade, the other hand back to fisting in his hair. ]
why are they like this (I know why don't actually feel the need to answer that)
Which could be... acceptable, for varying definitions thereof, except for the part where he wants to see and touch her for this, as opposed to some brief but explosive foray into the proclivities of one another.
He doesn't want her to stop; his hips shift to meet her even as his hands move from her waist downward and then up again, finding their way beneath the back of her armor to touch the fabric that separates leather from the skin.
Loki's throat is bared by the slightest tug of her hand in his hair and he laughs into her kisses. ]
You'd have me undone so soon.
[ His legs beneath her shift and his arms come back to her waist. Hold on. Literally, please; he plans on standing, carrying her as she is draped across his body, and finding an empty tent before he abandons all reason in favor of finding her skin again. ]
no subject
and glad, as she breathes him in, for the pause—even though there is a mindless whine of protest in her chest, an ache lancing through her low and sharp. It gives her a small space in which to think. In which to understand that she wants this to be more. Needs it to be. Needs to take the time to gently put the wave and curl of his hair to some small order. To find out if he sighs when she brushes kisses along his jawline. To see him, touch him; to watch him look at her, touch her, see the dawning of the understanding that she is his.
There is time enough to come back to this; the moment when she is writhing against him, unable to understand anything else.
Alexandrie sighs, rests her lips against the pulse of Loki’s throat, and lets him move her where he will. ]