“Of course I do,” Loki responds with an affronted air, settling a hand on her waist. “A bit, at least.”
Not that it's easy to care about humans in more than a vague, abstract way. There are so very many of them, and however far they've come over the centuries they still haven't changed that much. Their preoccupations are depressingly predictable. They're still organic, still do what they need to do to survive as a species. Eat. Drink. Piss. Shit. Fuck. Think often about all of the above. Love. Hate. Kill. Die. On and on and on, generation by generation, until they're all a blur.
He does get tired of that. He's not entirely certain it's possible not to get tired of that. It makes them so easy to disregard, to dislike, to murder, no matter how much he respects them as a species. No matter how curious they can sometimes be.
Still, for the time being they're all he really has left. He's no choice but to try to concern himself with them.
There is, of course, the darker side of that. There always is. He wants also, though he tries to avoid it, tries to refrain from admitting it to so much as himself, to be loved. More than that. Adored. Feared, too, yes, but fear is easy, and a temporary thrill. To be adored is something else entirely. Not quite right, never quite right, never enough, but it's a good start.
“All of that I can provide, and more besides,” he says, tracing her lips with one cool fingertip, “but how about now, hm? Where do things turn? You're being very friendly--” he gestures at the two of them, her, on his lap “--but I hesitate to assume.”
Or perhaps he just wants to hear her say it. “Do you want me, yes or no? I'm not asking; it really doesn't matter. I'm much too old for that. But I am offering.”
A bit, huh? Better than nothing. Likely a big thing for someone so removed from humanity. Even if it's just because she's some small, not-from-Asgard freak or whatever the hell that means. No, you know what? She freakin' likes him. A lot. He's weird, too. And kind of scary... but mostly just awesome. In... a scary way. Yes, the fear is definitely easy but mostly she likes him. Right now. Hard to tell if she'll keep liking him considering his track record with breaking stuff, but that is totally in the past. Why not give him a shot?
He is offering and it's incredibly difficult to form coherent thoughts when he's touching her, or talking, or just in his presence in general, actually. But she manages something kind of intelligible after getting over the dreamy, spaced-out state of mind.
"Hmmm, let's see. You did just fight Iron Man, which was totally hot by the way, and it is technically our third date. Then there's the whole you being ridiculously charming thing that I have to factor in, but you do bring up a very good point with the age difference that can still totally be countered by the fact that you look totally hot for an ancient dude." Hesitate to assume-- freakin' bullshit right there. It's so obvious. Might as well just give them what they both want. "Gonna go with yes. But only if you think you're up for it in your old age."
“Third date. Yes. You see? I'm not entirely discourteous.” Of course, all of this now is more a service to her than anything Loki himself would go out of his way to pursue for any reason other than a temporary lark, an opportunity to laugh at the gullibility of human beings. There's a remarkable amount of arrogance in that, he's well aware. He just happens to think he's earned it, not merely by virtue of his birth, as Thor would no doubt accuse, but also the long life he's lead since then.
“In the interest of full disclosure, though--” He settles a hand on her hip. Long dresses. Such a hassle. “--not only am I up for it, age notwithstanding, but I intend to exhaust you as thoroughly as I can reasonably manage with whatever time you see fit to give me.”
Up his palm drifts. At least the fabric is fine, pleasant under his fingertips as they drift along the curve of her waist, ghost the curve of her breast, up to the shoulder, collarbone, interclavicular notch, stop. “Though I promise, I do--” he traces a line with his forefinger down her sternum, a faint green glowing about the contact point as he toys with her nerve endings as one might the strings of a violin “--that god willing - and I assure you I am - you will enjoy every last moment of it.”
There's an art to this, a balance to the way he sparks at her nerves, fine fibres lighting up beneath her skin. Pleasure, yes. Obviously. But that's nothing if it doesn't hurt just the slightest bit first, doesn't sting just so, just so, so that what comes after is all the lovelier. Loki hooks two fingers in the neckline of her dress and pulls her closer, bending his head to run his tongue in an icy trail back up the path that his fingertip had just traced. She burns, she does, and he wants more.
There's probably something wrong in that, in the willing seeking out of punishment, in the desire to steal her warmth for himself, fill his absence with her presence, but it doesn't register. These things rarely do.
“If you've no objections to that idea, then I think we ought to get this lovely thing off of you, no?”
Not that it's easy to care about humans in more than a vague, abstract way. There are so very many of them, and however far they've come over the centuries they still haven't changed that much. Their preoccupations are depressingly predictable. They're still organic, still do what they need to do to survive as a species. Eat. Drink. Piss. Shit. Fuck. Think often about all of the above. Love. Hate. Kill. Die. On and on and on, generation by generation, until they're all a blur.
He does get tired of that. He's not entirely certain it's possible not to get tired of that. It makes them so easy to disregard, to dislike, to murder, no matter how much he respects them as a species. No matter how curious they can sometimes be.
Still, for the time being they're all he really has left. He's no choice but to try to concern himself with them.
There is, of course, the darker side of that. There always is. He wants also, though he tries to avoid it, tries to refrain from admitting it to so much as himself, to be loved. More than that. Adored. Feared, too, yes, but fear is easy, and a temporary thrill. To be adored is something else entirely. Not quite right, never quite right, never enough, but it's a good start.
“All of that I can provide, and more besides,” he says, tracing her lips with one cool fingertip, “but how about now, hm? Where do things turn? You're being very friendly--” he gestures at the two of them, her, on his lap “--but I hesitate to assume.”
Or perhaps he just wants to hear her say it. “Do you want me, yes or no? I'm not asking; it really doesn't matter. I'm much too old for that. But I am offering.”
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He is offering and it's incredibly difficult to form coherent thoughts when he's touching her, or talking, or just in his presence in general, actually. But she manages something kind of intelligible after getting over the dreamy, spaced-out state of mind.
"Hmmm, let's see. You did just fight Iron Man, which was totally hot by the way, and it is technically our third date. Then there's the whole you being ridiculously charming thing that I have to factor in, but you do bring up a very good point with the age difference that can still totally be countered by the fact that you look totally hot for an ancient dude." Hesitate to assume-- freakin' bullshit right there. It's so obvious. Might as well just give them what they both want. "Gonna go with yes. But only if you think you're up for it in your old age."
Reply
“In the interest of full disclosure, though--” He settles a hand on her hip. Long dresses. Such a hassle. “--not only am I up for it, age notwithstanding, but I intend to exhaust you as thoroughly as I can reasonably manage with whatever time you see fit to give me.”
Up his palm drifts. At least the fabric is fine, pleasant under his fingertips as they drift along the curve of her waist, ghost the curve of her breast, up to the shoulder, collarbone, interclavicular notch, stop. “Though I promise, I do--” he traces a line with his forefinger down her sternum, a faint green glowing about the contact point as he toys with her nerve endings as one might the strings of a violin “--that god willing - and I assure you I am - you will enjoy every last moment of it.”
There's an art to this, a balance to the way he sparks at her nerves, fine fibres lighting up beneath her skin. Pleasure, yes. Obviously. But that's nothing if it doesn't hurt just the slightest bit first, doesn't sting just so, just so, so that what comes after is all the lovelier. Loki hooks two fingers in the neckline of her dress and pulls her closer, bending his head to run his tongue in an icy trail back up the path that his fingertip had just traced. She burns, she does, and he wants more.
There's probably something wrong in that, in the willing seeking out of punishment, in the desire to steal her warmth for himself, fill his absence with her presence, but it doesn't register. These things rarely do.
“If you've no objections to that idea, then I think we ought to get this lovely thing off of you, no?”
Reply
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