“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?”
“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?”
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