He does -- he means this, he wants her. Will not acknowledge or examine these feelings past that point, does not allow himself even idly the thought of finding their hidden truths and meanings. It is . . . a painful exercise, perhaps pointlessly so, and he will not allow himself the melancholic luxury of wallowing in that pain.
Loki appreciates every one of her wiles, and he sets his hands on her hip with a brilliant smile. "Oh," he says, lifting her easily from the wooden platform and setting her down gently on the raft. It hardly wobbles, unlike the raft of the couple in front of them -- they may play at being normal, but they each have a predator's grace and an assassin's balance; Loki does not notice this little missing piece of the deception, instead leaning in to kiss her before sinking down to get settled. "I suppose not," he says, eyes dancing, even though he's paste an artful pout on his lips. "Though I'd rather smell of moonlight than sunshine. And my hair --" His eyes flash, the pout turning sultry. "It would simply be ruined."
"Oh," she repeated with a wicked grin. He knew all too well just how hard she had worked him, and she hadn't regretted it for a moment. After all it had opened up a world of opportunities. This trip - this time out in normalcy was like a test to see if they really could operate on any level. No leather, no metal, no cells, no cuffs, no threats. Just them.
She crouched and turned to lower herself between his legs. She leaned back against him and planted her feet as her knees became bent. A hand found his thigh and she gave it a fond squeeze. "And we can't have your hair ruined. If it's moonlight you prefer, then may I make another suggestion just to let this day stretch out longer?"
He wraped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her hair as she settles in between his legs. For one glorious moment there was nothing but that sunshine smell of her, bright and strong.
Simple. Easy. Normal. How much was a game and how much was truth? He often thought that he would never really know. The question then became: how much did it matter, where the seams were between the truth and the game? Could they live in that space where the two overlapped and joined?
"I'm listening," he said softly, eyes closing for a moment at that little squeeze on his leg. "I pay great attention to any suggestion that would prolong my fun."
It was a change for her to be thought of as light. As something that belonged in daylight. So often even Natasha had always just associated herself with shadow. She slid her other hand along his arm and threaded their fingers as she revelled in the embrace.
The Widow was at the point she just didn't care. She liked whatever this was. She liked that there was never any sure way of knowing what was real and what wasn't. The game, the truth... for the two of them it had probably never been separated. It was how they had been made to operate. Maybe that's why they worked - they already spoke the same language.
Her lips curled again and she turned her head to catch his lips just briefly. Her hand stayed on his leg, fingers sliding around so that she was cupping the side of his thigh. "We're close to the ocean. I was thinking maybe we should see if there's one of those hotels with little bungalows right on the beach front. Spend the night there. Our own moonlit strip of beach."
Loki appreciates every one of her wiles, and he sets his hands on her hip with a brilliant smile. "Oh," he says, lifting her easily from the wooden platform and setting her down gently on the raft. It hardly wobbles, unlike the raft of the couple in front of them -- they may play at being normal, but they each have a predator's grace and an assassin's balance; Loki does not notice this little missing piece of the deception, instead leaning in to kiss her before sinking down to get settled. "I suppose not," he says, eyes dancing, even though he's paste an artful pout on his lips. "Though I'd rather smell of moonlight than sunshine. And my hair --" His eyes flash, the pout turning sultry. "It would simply be ruined."
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She crouched and turned to lower herself between his legs. She leaned back against him and planted her feet as her knees became bent. A hand found his thigh and she gave it a fond squeeze. "And we can't have your hair ruined. If it's moonlight you prefer, then may I make another suggestion just to let this day stretch out longer?"
Reply
Simple. Easy. Normal. How much was a game and how much was truth? He often thought that he would never really know. The question then became: how much did it matter, where the seams were between the truth and the game? Could they live in that space where the two overlapped and joined?
"I'm listening," he said softly, eyes closing for a moment at that little squeeze on his leg. "I pay great attention to any suggestion that would prolong my fun."
Reply
The Widow was at the point she just didn't care. She liked whatever this was. She liked that there was never any sure way of knowing what was real and what wasn't. The game, the truth... for the two of them it had probably never been separated. It was how they had been made to operate. Maybe that's why they worked - they already spoke the same language.
Her lips curled again and she turned her head to catch his lips just briefly. Her hand stayed on his leg, fingers sliding around so that she was cupping the side of his thigh. "We're close to the ocean. I was thinking maybe we should see if there's one of those hotels with little bungalows right on the beach front. Spend the night there. Our own moonlit strip of beach."
Reply
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