FIc: Close Your Eyes, Open Your Mind (Natasha/Loki, NC-17)
Title: Close Your Eyes, Open Your Mind
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Natasha/Loki
Summary: Shame and desire; cruelty and kindness. Loki doesn't know which he craves more.
Content Notes: D/s, pegging, sadism/masochism, brief reference to chastity play, slight self-humiliation (full policy in profile)
Word Count: 2068
Author's Notes: This is a stand-alone sequel to More Than Bliss, and was written for Kink Bingo.
Long ago, as a boy perched on the cusp of adolescence, Loki had heard another boy call him a name in a whisper: ergi. Even Loki hadn't been sure what it meant, but he and all the others knew it was the deepest form of insult, and he had gone after Theoric with the righteous fury of a taunted prince, Thor yelling encouragement at his heels. It hadn't gone well; though Loki was quick and smart, he was small, and Theoric was a beast, less muscled than Thor but equally as heavy. Loki had been crushed, quite literally. When he slunk off to lick his wounds in private, he went not to his rooms but to the library, and schemed.
In his research for the perfect revenge, he had found a book, one that had been purposefully tucked away in a place the average child couldn't reach. Loki flipped through the pages, reading the same stories of war and battle that his tutors recited and the skalds sang, wondering why the librarians would have hidden this book in particular from him - and then he took the time to do more than skim a few lines, and found out. Cheeks and ears burning, he curled up and read on, marveling at the obscenities such a book could hold, and unnerved by the restless feelings the lines of description evoked in him. There, he discovered the true meaning of the name he had been called, and the true intensity of the insult. Loki had reread those stanzas again and again, mortified, and had sworn upon his life to never, ever shame himself in such a way.
And yet, here he is, stripped bare, his manhood locked away, kneeling with his head bowed, ready to be unmanned by a slip of a mortal woman and her toys. Disgraceful. Shame burns in his stomach, and Loki loves it.
Standing before him, Natasha traces the angles of his face, fingers ghosting along his jawline, along his cheeks, flushed red ever since she sent him to the bathroom to prepare himself for her. He trembles at the memory, at the knowledge of what he has asked her to do, so slightly he can only hope Natasha doesn't notice.
"Loki," she says, her voice gentle. She is only kind when she wants to be truly cruel; for Loki, that is a thousand times worse than any brutality she could bring down upon him.
"Natasha," he responds, his voice low and hoarse, already given over to lust. His eyes are closed, but he knows she won't allow that for long. She likes him to see what she's about to do, so she can revel in the mixed anticipation and fear in his eyes. His Natasha. Oh, she is such a wicked woman.
She hooks her fingers under his chin, tilting his head up, and orders, "Open your eyes."
Loki obeys.
Even though he knew exactly what he would see - this entire enterprise was his idea, after all - it still halts his breath in his chest, still makes him go rigid, every muscle tensed as if preparing for flight. The plastic phallus bobs scarce inches from his face, long and brutally thick, painted a deep, inorganic red a few shades brighter than Natasha's hair. Attached to her small body by a contraption of leather and rings, it should look absurd, a farcical play put on to mock women struggling to make their way in a man's world. It is assuredly not. Coupled with Natasha's still, catlike grace and her cold, level eyes, it is nothing but intimidating.
"Sometimes," Loki says, hearing his arousal rasping in his throat and knowing he cannot hide it, "I see how you look at me and I wonder if you do despise me, after all."
Natasha's lips curl; she runs her hands through his hair, nails scratching along his scalp before she wraps two thick locks around her fingers. "Does that turn you on?"
"Of course not," he lies, affronted, and Natasha laughs derisively before tugging him closer, yanking hard on his hair to jam his face up against her thighs, pinning the plastic phallus between their bodies. Loki hisses and twists from her grasp, managing to pull away but leaving long black strands twined around her fingers.
"Yeah, not gonna happen," she taunts, and grabs his ear, jerking his head back toward her. Loki yelps in pain, his ear smarting, his scalp throbbing, and Natasha smacks his cheek with the phallus.
"Suck it," she commands, and Loki parts his hips to accept the blunt head, grunting as she shoves her way into his mouth. It hits the back of his throat and Loki gags, but Natasha croons soothingly and strokes his hair.
"You can do it," she encourages. "I know you can, just open up and take it, Loki."
He trembles violently at the praise. She should feel blessed that he deigns to be with her, but instead he feels desperately, pathetically eager to please, to have her say his name in that voice, to take her plastic cock down his throat as if he were nothing more than a thrall and she his master. Loki makes a whining noise, muffled by the thing in his mouth, and arches his back and his neck, opening his throat as best he can.
She cups her hand around the back of his head and steadily pushes in, sliding him down her cock gently and implacably. Tears gather in his eyes, a natural response to the pain, but they do not fall. At the last inch or so, she jerks her hips hard, making Loki choke and convulse, grabbing at her thighs to steady himself. Above him, Natasha laughs softly, and he glances up to see a mocking smile gracing her lips before she pinches his nose between her fingers, cutting off his air. Loki utters a high, panicked sound, but she ignores him, holding his nose shut and fucking his throat in staccato thrusts. He gasps for breath and flails, his hands fluttering uselessly in front of him, torn between pushing her away and out of him but unwilling to face her displeasure, that coldly disappointed look on her face - and oh, she has him whipped and tamed like a dog, doesn't she, licking at her boots and waiting for her command. Loki hates her for it, a bright, pure note of fury that sings in his veins, and how he loves her, too. His hands finally settle on her hips as he holds his mouth open for her, neither fighting nor forcing but resting passively, a thing to be used, and it is only then that she relents, letting her cock slip from his lips and stepping back to watch him cough and gasp, saliva spilling down his chin in strings.
When he looks up, his cheeks are wet, tears dripping from his eyes. He never even noticed he was crying.
"You look good," Natasha says thoughtfully. "Really good." A smirk curves her lips, and she nudges his swollen cock in its cage with her foot. Loki makes a pathetic noise and curls in on himself. "Desperate, in fact."
"Natasha," he whispers, refusing to beg. Without glancing up, he can sense her smile turning tender, a devastating weapon in this game of theirs. He must not look at her.
"How long has it been?" she asks, though Loki is certain she knows.
"Dear me," he says, and clears his voice to rid it of its quaver. "I can't remember. Perhaps you've marked it down - "
She slaps him, hard, and Loki's head whips to the side, nearly toppling him.
"Try again," she orders coldly, and Loki gasps, a little moan slipping from his lips on the exhale.
"Nearly a month," he tells her, savoring the sting of her slap, thinking of the red handprint he knows is on his skin. "Shall I be more precise?"
"I knew you had it in you," she says, pleased with his capitulation. "You're mouthy tonight."
Loki lifts his shoulder in a shrug, his voice dry and sardonic. "Only for your pleasure, my lady."
Natasha says nothing, only gives him that chilling little grin, and Loki realizes belatedly that she is not in a gaming mood this night. No, tonight she will be brutal. Loki shivers, and instinctively leans toward her when she kneels, bringing herself to his level.
"Not so fast," she says, amused, and Loki watches her face as she takes the silver chain with its small key from around her neck, the only item she's wearing other than the harness and the phallus. She is exquisite, calmly sadistic with a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. He clamps his lip between his teeth as she carefully unlocks the cage, removing it and setting it aside; a sigh escapes him nonetheless, and Natasha takes his cock in firm hands, stroking him twice. Loki lets out a strangled whimper, and she kisses him very lightly, catching it in her mouth.
"I could take it off at any time, you know," he points out as she stands. "I am no slave to your whims."
"Do you?" she asks, as if the question is a purely academic one.
He doesn't. He never has.
Loki clenches his jaw and says nothing. She reads the answer in his face, and nods to the bed.
"Hands and knees," she instructs, standing at ease with her thick red cock bobbing between her legs. Loki scrambles to obey, and tells himself his eagerness is a show for her benefit. Even he does not believe it.
Crouched on his knees, bared to her, Loki waits, breathing shallowly, and when she finally does touch him, running her hands up his thighs and tugging him a little closer to her, he moans, back arching and legs splaying, presenting himself like a bitch in heat. Her hands slide up and tease the rim of his hole, slick and waiting for her. (He had spent nearly an hour in the bathroom, cleaning himself and working himself open with shaking hands, having to pause every few minutes or risk climaxing, even in his cage.)
"Oh," he whispers, and shudders hard as Natasha presses her finger inside him - inside him, and while Loki has fucked men before and knew they must get some pleasure out of it, he had never imagined such an invasion by another would feel so good, so strange but so deliciously sensitive, every nerve just waiting to be stroked.
"God, look at you," Natasha murmurs. "Ready for me?"
He has no quip to offer her, only a nod, and so she merely withdraws, and positions herself behind him. The tip of the phallus nudges against his hole, and Loki swallows a whimper, thinking of the extraordinary width of the thing and cursing himself for having selected it in the first place. Then she eases it inside him, excruciatingly slowly, and Loki's hands seize on the sheets, grabbing fistfuls of fabric as his breath stills in his chest. She presses in, deeper, stretching him wide, and then her body is flush against his and the whole length of the phallus is buried in him - Natasha's cock, in him.
Loki lets out a sobbing breath, and begs, "Move, damn you!"
Natasha pulls out nearly all the way, leaving Loki twitching, then slams back in, and Loki nearly screams. He has never once felt anything so thrilling and so terrifying, and he wants more, wants it harder -
"I will make you hurt," Natasha promises, her voice dark and knowing; she grips him by the hips, her nails digging into his flesh, and fucks him brutally.
Loki claws at the bed and writhes, his cock hard and leaking, untouched; Natasha is merciless, unrelenting, and Loki takes it, each thrust shoving him roughly against the mattress and shaking small, hysterical pleas from his throat.
"Yes," he chants, the words tumbling out unbidden as he gives voice to the litany running through his mind, "yes, yes, hurt me, hurt me - "
In response, Natasha lunges over him and grabs both of his wrists, jerking his arms behind his back and twisting; pain shrieks through his nerves and out his mouth in a feral, agonized cry, and his cock twitches without any provocation.
"I thought you'd like that," Natasha says viciously.
I was a king, once, Loki thinks, a sort of gleeful horror shivering down his spine at the thought, and now I am nothing but a mortal's whore.
He buries his face in the bedding as Natasha uses his wrists as leverage to fuck into him harder, pleasure rising in him, a tide drawn by her moon. The sensation is maddening, a pulsing heat that melts through his entire body, suffusing him with trembling tension, a strain of desire so sharp it burns, and with each stroke Natasha makes inside him it builds, until Loki is quivering and slurring nonsense into the sheets.
"Nggh," he manages, and tries again. "Natasha!"
"You are so good," she murmurs, "such a good boy, you're doing fine," and something in Loki breaks.
He sobs, spreads his legs wider, and rocks against her, taking everything she has to give greedily - and then he climaxes, so violently and so wonderfully that he barely can tell the difference between the pleasure and the pain as it wracks his body for what undoubtedly is mere seconds but feels so much longer. When he is finished, when Natasha has wrung every last drop of seed from his body, he collapses, overwhelmed, and cries like a child; he knows not why, only that the release is necessary.
Behind him, the mattress dips as Natasha sits down, and she runs her hands along his back and his side, pressing her lips to his shoulder but not saying a word. Sometimes, he is convinced she hates him, and that these games they play are only that; at times like this, he understands with unexpected clarity just how much she must care for him, to treat him thus.
"You'll have to wait your turn," he mumbles as she strokes his chest. "I am otherwise occupied."
"It's fine," she says fondly, and hooks her leg over his, letting him feel her wetness as she grinds her sex against his thigh. "I already took it."
"Did you?"
"Mmm. About halfway through, actually. Friction's an amazing thing."
"You're welcome," he sniffs, and she laughs, nipping at his arm.
Months ago, she had admitted that she loved him; only when confronted about it, of course, but she confessed nonetheless. He had not responded in kind - Loki is not sure he has love left to give - but he had offered her a gift given to no one else. Yet instead of taking his vow of honesty, Natasha chose to play his games. Chose with a smile upon her lips, chose with the promise of being an opponent better than any he has played against before. It remains the most touching show of sentiment Loki has ever seen, and means more to him than any declaration of affection ever could. He honestly doubts he'll mind if he loses.
Though he has come to accept that, the knowledge still shocks him somewhat. Loki had a throne, and now he is a willing slut for this mortal woman, this woman who loves him. Strange, to think how he wouldn't forsake the latter for the former any longer.
There's no need to, he promises himself, curled in Natasha's arms as she traces the scars on his ribs, quiet and at peace as he only is with her. Someday, I shall have both.
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Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Natasha/Loki
Summary: Shame and desire; cruelty and kindness. Loki doesn't know which he craves more.
Content Notes: D/s, pegging, sadism/masochism, brief reference to chastity play, slight self-humiliation (full policy in profile)
Word Count: 2068
Author's Notes: This is a stand-alone sequel to More Than Bliss, and was written for Kink Bingo.
Long ago, as a boy perched on the cusp of adolescence, Loki had heard another boy call him a name in a whisper: ergi. Even Loki hadn't been sure what it meant, but he and all the others knew it was the deepest form of insult, and he had gone after Theoric with the righteous fury of a taunted prince, Thor yelling encouragement at his heels. It hadn't gone well; though Loki was quick and smart, he was small, and Theoric was a beast, less muscled than Thor but equally as heavy. Loki had been crushed, quite literally. When he slunk off to lick his wounds in private, he went not to his rooms but to the library, and schemed.
In his research for the perfect revenge, he had found a book, one that had been purposefully tucked away in a place the average child couldn't reach. Loki flipped through the pages, reading the same stories of war and battle that his tutors recited and the skalds sang, wondering why the librarians would have hidden this book in particular from him - and then he took the time to do more than skim a few lines, and found out. Cheeks and ears burning, he curled up and read on, marveling at the obscenities such a book could hold, and unnerved by the restless feelings the lines of description evoked in him. There, he discovered the true meaning of the name he had been called, and the true intensity of the insult. Loki had reread those stanzas again and again, mortified, and had sworn upon his life to never, ever shame himself in such a way.
And yet, here he is, stripped bare, his manhood locked away, kneeling with his head bowed, ready to be unmanned by a slip of a mortal woman and her toys. Disgraceful. Shame burns in his stomach, and Loki loves it.
Standing before him, Natasha traces the angles of his face, fingers ghosting along his jawline, along his cheeks, flushed red ever since she sent him to the bathroom to prepare himself for her. He trembles at the memory, at the knowledge of what he has asked her to do, so slightly he can only hope Natasha doesn't notice.
"Loki," she says, her voice gentle. She is only kind when she wants to be truly cruel; for Loki, that is a thousand times worse than any brutality she could bring down upon him.
"Natasha," he responds, his voice low and hoarse, already given over to lust. His eyes are closed, but he knows she won't allow that for long. She likes him to see what she's about to do, so she can revel in the mixed anticipation and fear in his eyes. His Natasha. Oh, she is such a wicked woman.
She hooks her fingers under his chin, tilting his head up, and orders, "Open your eyes."
Loki obeys.
Even though he knew exactly what he would see - this entire enterprise was his idea, after all - it still halts his breath in his chest, still makes him go rigid, every muscle tensed as if preparing for flight. The plastic phallus bobs scarce inches from his face, long and brutally thick, painted a deep, inorganic red a few shades brighter than Natasha's hair. Attached to her small body by a contraption of leather and rings, it should look absurd, a farcical play put on to mock women struggling to make their way in a man's world. It is assuredly not. Coupled with Natasha's still, catlike grace and her cold, level eyes, it is nothing but intimidating.
"Sometimes," Loki says, hearing his arousal rasping in his throat and knowing he cannot hide it, "I see how you look at me and I wonder if you do despise me, after all."
Natasha's lips curl; she runs her hands through his hair, nails scratching along his scalp before she wraps two thick locks around her fingers. "Does that turn you on?"
"Of course not," he lies, affronted, and Natasha laughs derisively before tugging him closer, yanking hard on his hair to jam his face up against her thighs, pinning the plastic phallus between their bodies. Loki hisses and twists from her grasp, managing to pull away but leaving long black strands twined around her fingers.
"Yeah, not gonna happen," she taunts, and grabs his ear, jerking his head back toward her. Loki yelps in pain, his ear smarting, his scalp throbbing, and Natasha smacks his cheek with the phallus.
"Suck it," she commands, and Loki parts his hips to accept the blunt head, grunting as she shoves her way into his mouth. It hits the back of his throat and Loki gags, but Natasha croons soothingly and strokes his hair.
"You can do it," she encourages. "I know you can, just open up and take it, Loki."
He trembles violently at the praise. She should feel blessed that he deigns to be with her, but instead he feels desperately, pathetically eager to please, to have her say his name in that voice, to take her plastic cock down his throat as if he were nothing more than a thrall and she his master. Loki makes a whining noise, muffled by the thing in his mouth, and arches his back and his neck, opening his throat as best he can.
She cups her hand around the back of his head and steadily pushes in, sliding him down her cock gently and implacably. Tears gather in his eyes, a natural response to the pain, but they do not fall. At the last inch or so, she jerks her hips hard, making Loki choke and convulse, grabbing at her thighs to steady himself. Above him, Natasha laughs softly, and he glances up to see a mocking smile gracing her lips before she pinches his nose between her fingers, cutting off his air. Loki utters a high, panicked sound, but she ignores him, holding his nose shut and fucking his throat in staccato thrusts. He gasps for breath and flails, his hands fluttering uselessly in front of him, torn between pushing her away and out of him but unwilling to face her displeasure, that coldly disappointed look on her face - and oh, she has him whipped and tamed like a dog, doesn't she, licking at her boots and waiting for her command. Loki hates her for it, a bright, pure note of fury that sings in his veins, and how he loves her, too. His hands finally settle on her hips as he holds his mouth open for her, neither fighting nor forcing but resting passively, a thing to be used, and it is only then that she relents, letting her cock slip from his lips and stepping back to watch him cough and gasp, saliva spilling down his chin in strings.
When he looks up, his cheeks are wet, tears dripping from his eyes. He never even noticed he was crying.
"You look good," Natasha says thoughtfully. "Really good." A smirk curves her lips, and she nudges his swollen cock in its cage with her foot. Loki makes a pathetic noise and curls in on himself. "Desperate, in fact."
"Natasha," he whispers, refusing to beg. Without glancing up, he can sense her smile turning tender, a devastating weapon in this game of theirs. He must not look at her.
"How long has it been?" she asks, though Loki is certain she knows.
"Dear me," he says, and clears his voice to rid it of its quaver. "I can't remember. Perhaps you've marked it down - "
She slaps him, hard, and Loki's head whips to the side, nearly toppling him.
"Try again," she orders coldly, and Loki gasps, a little moan slipping from his lips on the exhale.
"Nearly a month," he tells her, savoring the sting of her slap, thinking of the red handprint he knows is on his skin. "Shall I be more precise?"
"I knew you had it in you," she says, pleased with his capitulation. "You're mouthy tonight."
Loki lifts his shoulder in a shrug, his voice dry and sardonic. "Only for your pleasure, my lady."
Natasha says nothing, only gives him that chilling little grin, and Loki realizes belatedly that she is not in a gaming mood this night. No, tonight she will be brutal. Loki shivers, and instinctively leans toward her when she kneels, bringing herself to his level.
"Not so fast," she says, amused, and Loki watches her face as she takes the silver chain with its small key from around her neck, the only item she's wearing other than the harness and the phallus. She is exquisite, calmly sadistic with a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. He clamps his lip between his teeth as she carefully unlocks the cage, removing it and setting it aside; a sigh escapes him nonetheless, and Natasha takes his cock in firm hands, stroking him twice. Loki lets out a strangled whimper, and she kisses him very lightly, catching it in her mouth.
"I could take it off at any time, you know," he points out as she stands. "I am no slave to your whims."
"Do you?" she asks, as if the question is a purely academic one.
He doesn't. He never has.
Loki clenches his jaw and says nothing. She reads the answer in his face, and nods to the bed.
"Hands and knees," she instructs, standing at ease with her thick red cock bobbing between her legs. Loki scrambles to obey, and tells himself his eagerness is a show for her benefit. Even he does not believe it.
Crouched on his knees, bared to her, Loki waits, breathing shallowly, and when she finally does touch him, running her hands up his thighs and tugging him a little closer to her, he moans, back arching and legs splaying, presenting himself like a bitch in heat. Her hands slide up and tease the rim of his hole, slick and waiting for her. (He had spent nearly an hour in the bathroom, cleaning himself and working himself open with shaking hands, having to pause every few minutes or risk climaxing, even in his cage.)
"Oh," he whispers, and shudders hard as Natasha presses her finger inside him - inside him, and while Loki has fucked men before and knew they must get some pleasure out of it, he had never imagined such an invasion by another would feel so good, so strange but so deliciously sensitive, every nerve just waiting to be stroked.
"God, look at you," Natasha murmurs. "Ready for me?"
He has no quip to offer her, only a nod, and so she merely withdraws, and positions herself behind him. The tip of the phallus nudges against his hole, and Loki swallows a whimper, thinking of the extraordinary width of the thing and cursing himself for having selected it in the first place. Then she eases it inside him, excruciatingly slowly, and Loki's hands seize on the sheets, grabbing fistfuls of fabric as his breath stills in his chest. She presses in, deeper, stretching him wide, and then her body is flush against his and the whole length of the phallus is buried in him - Natasha's cock, in him.
Loki lets out a sobbing breath, and begs, "Move, damn you!"
Natasha pulls out nearly all the way, leaving Loki twitching, then slams back in, and Loki nearly screams. He has never once felt anything so thrilling and so terrifying, and he wants more, wants it harder -
"I will make you hurt," Natasha promises, her voice dark and knowing; she grips him by the hips, her nails digging into his flesh, and fucks him brutally.
Loki claws at the bed and writhes, his cock hard and leaking, untouched; Natasha is merciless, unrelenting, and Loki takes it, each thrust shoving him roughly against the mattress and shaking small, hysterical pleas from his throat.
"Yes," he chants, the words tumbling out unbidden as he gives voice to the litany running through his mind, "yes, yes, hurt me, hurt me - "
In response, Natasha lunges over him and grabs both of his wrists, jerking his arms behind his back and twisting; pain shrieks through his nerves and out his mouth in a feral, agonized cry, and his cock twitches without any provocation.
"I thought you'd like that," Natasha says viciously.
I was a king, once, Loki thinks, a sort of gleeful horror shivering down his spine at the thought, and now I am nothing but a mortal's whore.
He buries his face in the bedding as Natasha uses his wrists as leverage to fuck into him harder, pleasure rising in him, a tide drawn by her moon. The sensation is maddening, a pulsing heat that melts through his entire body, suffusing him with trembling tension, a strain of desire so sharp it burns, and with each stroke Natasha makes inside him it builds, until Loki is quivering and slurring nonsense into the sheets.
"Nggh," he manages, and tries again. "Natasha!"
"You are so good," she murmurs, "such a good boy, you're doing fine," and something in Loki breaks.
He sobs, spreads his legs wider, and rocks against her, taking everything she has to give greedily - and then he climaxes, so violently and so wonderfully that he barely can tell the difference between the pleasure and the pain as it wracks his body for what undoubtedly is mere seconds but feels so much longer. When he is finished, when Natasha has wrung every last drop of seed from his body, he collapses, overwhelmed, and cries like a child; he knows not why, only that the release is necessary.
Behind him, the mattress dips as Natasha sits down, and she runs her hands along his back and his side, pressing her lips to his shoulder but not saying a word. Sometimes, he is convinced she hates him, and that these games they play are only that; at times like this, he understands with unexpected clarity just how much she must care for him, to treat him thus.
"You'll have to wait your turn," he mumbles as she strokes his chest. "I am otherwise occupied."
"It's fine," she says fondly, and hooks her leg over his, letting him feel her wetness as she grinds her sex against his thigh. "I already took it."
"Did you?"
"Mmm. About halfway through, actually. Friction's an amazing thing."
"You're welcome," he sniffs, and she laughs, nipping at his arm.
Months ago, she had admitted that she loved him; only when confronted about it, of course, but she confessed nonetheless. He had not responded in kind - Loki is not sure he has love left to give - but he had offered her a gift given to no one else. Yet instead of taking his vow of honesty, Natasha chose to play his games. Chose with a smile upon her lips, chose with the promise of being an opponent better than any he has played against before. It remains the most touching show of sentiment Loki has ever seen, and means more to him than any declaration of affection ever could. He honestly doubts he'll mind if he loses.
Though he has come to accept that, the knowledge still shocks him somewhat. Loki had a throne, and now he is a willing slut for this mortal woman, this woman who loves him. Strange, to think how he wouldn't forsake the latter for the former any longer.
There's no need to, he promises himself, curled in Natasha's arms as she traces the scars on his ribs, quiet and at peace as he only is with her. Someday, I shall have both.
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