[ And she remembers. Remembers sweeping into ballrooms making a reckless scandal of herself to be announced with an Altus from Tevinter; both of them smug, self-satisfied, with eyes for only one another. Two shining, graceful, dangerous things against the worldβ and with her hand resting delicate in the crook of his elbow she had been a thing of flame and air, breathless and dizzy with love.
Lately she has been too scared to fly. Envious, watching Byerly and Bastien play, too unsure of her footing to dance like spreading wings. But with himβ
A warm and happy hum, as she traces fingers over Loki's shoulder and whispers mischief in his hair. ]
We shall have to take you to a proper tailor, then, for I would have you in brocade and silk to spin me.
[ Her voice somewhat like silk itself, warm with promises: ]
[ He sounds amused at the prospect of her dressing him to appeal to her sense of style, but honestly? It would be... nice, actually. To wear nice clothes again, to go dancing.
To ignore the finery of those clothes and leave them trailing on the floor as he follows her.
He tilts his head upwards in order to kiss her chin. ]
Tell me what you'd wear. Are you always in greens and blacks and browns?
[ A chuckle for the question, made warmer by the kiss. ]
Absolument pas! Only in battle.
My gowns are black and greens and golds when I want everyone who sees me to remember at whose side I chose to stand.
[ His. Yours. ]
And so that such gowns may remain the pointed message I wish them to be, my other days are spent in white with bits of rose; lace and pearls and petticoats, parasols, silk stockingsβ¦
And garters full of knives.
[ She laughs, then. Kisses his hair and asserts: ]
[ He remembers seeing her, with her knives, and being drawn immediately. To the colors, yes, as a matter of course; he knows himself well enough to admit that. But also her skill was remarkable and vaguely familiar.
Loki supposes he knows where those skills may have come from, now. ]
Petticoats, [ he repeats, ] are those the... giant skirts with a mile of poof bundled up underneath? With the hoops? [ He sounds incredulous but also interested. ] Don't you get hot?
[ Laughter again, shaking her a little where he lies against her chest. It is quiet for the night-time, but with a hint of the shape it might have were it ringing across a summer courtyard. ]
Non. There is a nice breeze around my legs, for the petticoats lie over the hoops and so the mile of poof is kept away from me and may serve its solemn duty of making my skirts fall nicely. I have a great deal of room under there.
[ With the innocence of birdsong on a lovely morning: ]
You may check for yourself sometime, if you like.
[ Her fingers find his earlobe to pull it, cheeky but tender, and then walk their way back to settle at his shoulder again. ]
[ Her laugh, while quiet, is quite lovely Loki thinks. Tomorrow he'll have to discover if she's ticklish at all. ]
Of course I will, without question. [ He chuckled at her little ear pinch before humming in consideration. ]
It depends on what position they hold in Asgardian society. Warriors and the Valkyries wear armor of course. But everyone else? They're like... robes, I suppose. Very, hm, drapey.
Midgardian fashion is more interesting and more complicated.
[ Of course, he says, as if she might know about Valkyries.
Alexandrie opens her mouth to askβ about Valkyries, about Midgardβ but is interrupted by a yawn born of a number of different kinds of exhaustion catching up with her of a sudden combined with the peace of holding a body that hers wants badly enough to recognize that it has convinced itself it does. Safe, it insists, returned, home, strong enough to let her trust that if she sleeps there will be a morning.
She'll remember. She'll ask then. For now she shifts a little to better curl herself around him and rests her head against his, closing her eyes with a sleepy and contented hum. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Lately she has been too scared to fly. Envious, watching Byerly and Bastien play, too unsure of her footing to dance like spreading wings. But with himβ
A warm and happy hum, as she traces fingers over Loki's shoulder and whispers mischief in his hair. ]
We shall have to take you to a proper tailor, then, for I would have you in brocade and silk to spin me.
[ Her voice somewhat like silk itself, warm with promises: ]
And out of them, after.
no subject
[ He sounds amused at the prospect of her dressing him to appeal to her sense of style, but honestly? It would be... nice, actually. To wear nice clothes again, to go dancing.
To ignore the finery of those clothes and leave them trailing on the floor as he follows her.
He tilts his head upwards in order to kiss her chin. ]
Tell me what you'd wear. Are you always in greens and blacks and browns?
no subject
Absolument pas! Only in battle.
My gowns are black and greens and golds when I want everyone who sees me to remember at whose side I chose to stand.
[ His. Yours. ]
And so that such gowns may remain the pointed message I wish them to be, my other days are spent in white with bits of rose; lace and pearls and petticoats, parasols, silk stockingsβ¦
And garters full of knives.
[ She laughs, then. Kisses his hair and asserts: ]
I am a delicate flower.
no subject
[ He remembers seeing her, with her knives, and being drawn immediately. To the colors, yes, as a matter of course; he knows himself well enough to admit that. But also her skill was remarkable and vaguely familiar.
Loki supposes he knows where those skills may have come from, now. ]
Petticoats, [ he repeats, ] are those the... giant skirts with a mile of poof bundled up underneath? With the hoops? [ He sounds incredulous but also interested. ] Don't you get hot?
no subject
Non. There is a nice breeze around my legs, for the petticoats lie over the hoops and so the mile of poof is kept away from me and may serve its solemn duty of making my skirts fall nicely. I have a great deal of room under there.
[ With the innocence of birdsong on a lovely morning: ]
You may check for yourself sometime, if you like.
[ Her fingers find his earlobe to pull it, cheeky but tender, and then walk their way back to settle at his shoulder again. ]
What do your women wear in Asgard?
no subject
Of course I will, without question. [ He chuckled at her little ear pinch before humming in consideration. ]
It depends on what position they hold in Asgardian society. Warriors and the Valkyries wear armor of course. But everyone else? They're like... robes, I suppose. Very, hm, drapey.
Midgardian fashion is more interesting and more complicated.
no subject
Alexandrie opens her mouth to askβ about Valkyries, about Midgardβ but is interrupted by a yawn born of a number of different kinds of exhaustion catching up with her of a sudden combined with the peace of holding a body that hers wants badly enough to recognize that it has convinced itself it does. Safe, it insists, returned, home, strong enough to let her trust that if she sleeps there will be a morning.
She'll remember. She'll ask then. For now she shifts a little to better curl herself around him and rests her head against his, closing her eyes with a sleepy and contented hum. ]