[ He lifts her again and she is pliant in his arms. Breathless when he kisses her, a thing of helpless little gasps and sounds that clings, that whines quietly when he has to move away to take off her boots.
It is not until he kisses her nose and draws away that she is stirred from her reverie; the incongruous innocence of it bringing her back to herself. Her eyes flutter open, and she glows. Smiles at him under summer sky eyes as if she had slept and wakened and there was no-one in the world she would rather find herself next to, and wrinkles her nose sweetly.
Then she watches him; raising herself on her elbows in the blankets, her gaze tracing over the lines and shapes of him as he reveals them. Looking at the way the last light brushes highlight, pools in shadow, shifts and plays over him as he moves, intent and still as she is in the moments between choosing the land she will paint and when she begins to mix the colours she will use to save her sight of it forever.
And she loves him. She loves him like she loves the sea: because he is beautiful, and because she must. Because it was written in her bones when she was made.
Perhaps it was before she was made. Perhaps Thedas is the dream of gods, and somewhen, far away, unbeknownst to himself, the God of Mischief dreamed her into being. Dreamed another self for her, and finally has come to find her for himself.
Perhaps not.
But to Alexandrie it does not matter how a thing is true, it only matters that it is.
When he has bared himself and sits by her, traces figures across her skin as her husband was wont to do when he wrought his magic, when he was nervous, the runes are different. Not all of the patterns are. For a moment her eyes shine with tears of recognition, but she is smiling, and they do not fall. Instead she blinks them away, and sits up slowly to reach for him. To touch his hair, his face, run her fingersβ uninterrupted nowβ along the slope of his shoulders, down his arms. To take his hands. Tug at them gently. Pull him to her as she sinks back down. ]
[ Her eyes are wet and he wants, desperately, madly perhaps, to make her cry if only to kiss them away, taste the salt of those tears against her skin. He thinks he knows how he'd do it; cause her to shed tears not only of pain but perhaps of joy as well. It's all tied into wanting to whisper her name, the whole of it, over and over again so she has the memory of his voice shaping the sound to carry on with her.
Being unable to tell just how destructive of an idea that may be means that his lips part, but nothing is said. Loki swallows. Feels her gaze upon him.
Lexie looks at him with love; he's seen it before, but never directed at himself, not like this, searingly hot like the touch of the coldest thing to unprepared flesh. She looks at him, not just at the collection of poor decisions and bad behavior, not through or past him to only his name and his birthright or the shadow of his brother that falls darkest in his heart above all others. She sees him, this kaleidoscope of fragmented and frosted glass, and she gazes upon him with love in her eyes and so when she takes his hands his breath has gone shaky again and he laces their fingers together.
It's easy to be pulled down by her, and he intends to take his time, to kiss her face and her throat and her chest and her fingers. He wants to be sweet, and gentle, and memorable for her. The friction caused by the brush of his cock against the inside of her thigh as he settles between her legs has him reconsidering that position, causing him to gasp and shut his eyes long enough to reign his body's nerve endings into some semblance of behavior.
He lets go of one hand in order to cup the side of her face, fingers spread from the very edge of her lips to the lobe of her ear. His thumb pressed against her lower lip as he looks in her eyes for permission to continue forward. ]
[ Alexandrie is reconsidering her own position as he settles against her, albeit physically. She draws her knees a little higher to tilt her hips to better meet his, one of them continuing its journey, brushing his side to caress it on its way to lift and settle her leg at his waist.
She shivers at the way opens her to him, taking his thumb between her teeth to gently bite away some of how it overwhelms her simply to have the length of him pressed against her, how even so she lifts her hips to seek for more. Her breath already shudders shallowly, heart already pounds just to meet his eyes and see the question there.
For a long moment she stops breathing, holding still as she looks at him with a near painful vulnerability. And then she softens slowly. Her bite releases into a press of her lips. Her freed hand slides to rest just below his shoulder as if setting for a dance, the one that still holds his tightens its grip, and she exhales ]
[ She holds her breath and he remains perfectly still, mentally preparing for the worst (we shouldn't, we can't, please stop). Why else would she hesitate? He has so little pretense at this moment, open and wanting and nearly afraid that it's going to be taken away from him before he can even properly grasp it.
If she did ask him to stop, that would be it. He would rock back on his heels, give her space. It would have to be fine because he is many things, a great deal of them terrible, but the sort of man to ignore an indication to halt at this point is not one of them.
In some turn of a miracle, she doesn't turn him away. She says yes like it's a holy thing, settles him with a touch instead and Loki lets out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding, some of the tension in his shoulders ebbing out beneath her hand. He moves the hand entangled with hers up above her head, slowly, and breathes as evenly as he can (which isn't that even at this point, really) as his hips slide against hers.
She's soft, and warm, and wet, and pliant, and he can't look away from her eyes. Scans across her face as he settles within her, having to catch his breath all over again. The hand at her face moves to tangle his fingers in the curls of her hair. ]
Alexandrie, [ he murmurs, soft as he moves against her, because a nickname is not enough when they're entangled and entwined like this. She had said she would break, if her name was uttered in his voice, and he'll take responsibility for that now. Will hold her pieces and allow her to reform in his hands. ]
[ In some distant part of her, even Alexandrie is surprised by the sound she makes to feel the solid glide of him inside her while their eyes are locked this way. While he speaks her name. It issues from a depth in her she had forgotten she had, so long it has been since it was touchedβ a gutted moan, low and round and open-throated as she arches into him. The leg she'd wrapped at his waist tenses, tries to pull him deeper as her hands clench; one around his, one digging the hard smoothness of her nails into the muscle of his shoulder.
And then too much. Suddenly far too much. He will be able to see the wildness of it in her eyes as she tries to focus and can't, hear the edges of her breaths turn sharp and desperate. She gasps a word in a language he won't know. A second in another language, this one matching the sounds of her accent. Then, in Trade: ]
Wait. [ She is curling into him as she can, burying her face in his neck, half-sobbing the words. ] Wait. [ And then ] Please. [ And then, brittle and frantic, ] Stay.
[ He freezes. How can he not? His hips still and he watches her, breathing heavily through the effort of it, a little furrow appearing between his brows at the foreign words to his ears, unused to being exposed to languages that aren't understood by Allspeak.
He wants to know what she's said. What he's done. Clearly, he was not as prepared for her to break as he thought, because his heart is in his throat and he can't swallow past it. She has every right to throw him out, he realizes; she'd only asked him for the one thing.
It's her voice at the end of that has him closing his eyes, stroking her hair. He won't move again otherwise. ]
I'm not going anywhere, [ he tells her, trying to keep his voice soothing, lips near the shell of her ear. ]Mitt hjerte i brann, hmm? I'm afraid you're stuck with me.
[ βuntil we perish, finishes another voice in memory. Another body covering hers. Different. The same. She is kissed, and held, and loved,
I shall keep you. Forever, I thinkβ ]
Where is he?
[ It is piteous and heartbroken and she does not expect an answer. She is not asking the man who holds her now, although she clings to him. She asks it of the world. For him, sobbed as she shakes her head against him: ]
Do not make me promises. Do not. The future is not anyone's to give.
[ She pulls back to look at him and in the glassy anguish of her eyes are the tears he had wanted, the salt against her skin. ]
Give me now. Do not say I can have anything more. I cannot bear it.
She clings, but she asks questions he can't answer and makes demands he would very much like to ignore. He knows that he can't predict the future, can't promise her he won't be yanked out of this place or fall through the Fade or whatever in Hel is supposed to have happened to make him arrive in the first place. He knows, but he doesn't care.
He would swear fealty to her if she'd let him.
Loki catches one of those tears as it escapes her eye and rolls down her cheek. Rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. ]
Whatever you want, [ he says seriously, somewhat aware that might not be... the thing she wants to hear, exactly, but it is the truth. ]
[ Truth for truth, delivered with a passion that lies as close to madness as she to him. There is no-one she has ever loved who has not left her. No-one she loves who she trusts will not. It is dark water in her foundation that crumbles and eats a yawning space beneath the fields above it, waiting for collapse. ]
[ The hand that has been holding hers all this time stretches its fingers out as he shifts his weight a little off of her. He intends to roll onto his side and pull her with him if she's willing to allow for that; to wrap his limbs and the blankets around her, and kiss her forehead. ]
I don't know how I got here, to your Thedas. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or an hour from now. [ He brushes a few tears away. ] I do know this: as long as I'm here, you shan't be rid of me.
[ There's a moment before the shift when she tenses, so caught up in her fear of leaving that she cannot recognize a different kind of stay; but that last cry was the end of her fight, and when she lets him move them soon enough he is wrapped around her with his lips pressed to her head and the violent shudder of her slowly falls to stillness as he speaks.
There is never enough time, she remembers.
Eventually Alexandrie stirs herself enough to wrap herself around him in return as best she can, tucking her head beneath his chin, and nods there. ]
[ Loki lets her settle in his arms; holds her close but not too tightly, tilting his head so that she can arrange herself to be at a chin-resting height. For a long while he says nothing, just feels her breathe against him and listens to the muted sounds of the camp around them, watching the angle of the light through the canvas sink lower and lower.
When he does speak it's quiet; he's not entirely certain she's still awake. ]
[ He doesn't really know... what to say, in this moment. How anything about himself could be useful to her, right now. ]
I know that can't be easy.
[ Loving him. Any version of him. Because he is, at his core, a terrible and chaotic person. One who makes decisions based on how interesting the effects may be, and less on how good it will be for those involved. ]
And I know it isn't the same.
[ He isn't her husband. Who may still be alive; Lokis survive, after all. But who may not be, and in his focus on keeping the look in her eyes for himself he didn't completely think through what that knowledge must have been doing to her for the last seven months. ]
[ There is a rustle of cloth as she shifts back so she can look up at him.
Alexandrie is not at her most beautiful. She wears none of her customary cosmetic to go to battle; it is replaced by the dust of combat, that dust cut through by the tracks of those tears that rimmed her eyes with red. Although the braid remains largely intact, the hair closest to her face is a muss of escaped tendrils, pulled half-free by his hand in them.
But in her eyes, what of them he can see in the gathering darkness, is the tranquility of a lake at sunrise. A kind of surety that can be no more denied than rain. ]
Loki.
[ It is soft, her voice a match to her eyes. The hand that traces his back withdraws, returns again as a whisper of a touch against his cheek. ]
Loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done.
It is like breath. It comes without thought; with thought it makes me calm and still. Stifled, I struggle. Taken, I die.
[ Dramatic, perhaps; but she is calm and still in saying it, as if it is something she knows as simple truth. Like rain.
Her thumb strokes along his cheekbone. ]
It is not the same, no. I would not wish it so. What is his is his.
[ And what is mine? He thinks, in the same tone as a child who has been told that not everything is. Her love, apparently, and it is either trusting that, believing her words and her eyes and the weight of her in his arms, or perish.
What does he have to give her in return? A fallen god, from another world far away, and yet not even the first to his name here. His heart feels like such a small thing, a fruit that was left in the sun for too long, sweetnesses all gone bitter. She deserves something whole and hale and open for her, but it's all he has to offer.
His thumb comes up to rub across the plane of her cheekbone, a perfect echo of her gesture.
Loki opens his mouth to say something and then has to shut it again when the noise he makes isn't words but a small sob.
Shutting his eyes does nothing to stop the tears, but they're going to happen anyway. ]
Alright.
[ Does he even know what, exactly, he's agreeing to?
[ One heartbeat, two, and there is the gentle press of lips on his cheek. The pass of thumb across the other as she finds the tears and takes them. The taste of salt when her lips find his with a terrible tenderness.
There is quiet in her heart, finally quiet, and it beats into her body and makes her settle again against him like a sigh.
And then, on an inhale through her nose, that kiss has parted lips and asks for more. ]
[ That she captures his tears, that he can taste them on her lips, that he'd planned to cause the same to her is not lost on him at this moment. He witnesses it with a sort of detached awe.
She knows him and loves him and is very much like him and the dagger settling between his ribs turns.
It is not a shock, the tonal shift; her body is warm in his arms and his body still half remembers the feel of her around him. Besides which he's mentally somewhere beyond shock in the moment, somewhere that reminds him very much of falling through the Void. Yet Lexie's parting lips bring him solidly back into his body and into the moment. He kisses back, open and passionate and wanting all over again, pulling her close just in order to roll them further in his direction. This means that she ends up on top of his chest as he lays on his back, kissing her throughout. ]
[ At the end of the roll her knees quickly find their place on either side of him again. Her teeth tug at his lower lip, fingers splay to sink into his hair, to cradle the back of his head and exchange her ardor for his in equal measure.
At some point she pulls back to let free her hair. To rake quick fingers through the braid to turn it to a tumble of loose copper curls that curtain them in that scent of woody roses when she bends again to kiss him, dragging their soft tickle over his chest when she tracks her kisses from mouth to jaw, to shoulder; to nip at his collarbone and smooth the spot with her tongue before she is drawn upwards again by instinct memory to fasten her mouth and draw at the place where his pulse beats just below his ear that had always made her husband gasp. ]
[ When she pulls back his hands settle on either side of her hips, taking in the shape of her before he becomes distracted by the waterfall of hair suddenly available to him. The smell is heady and fills the space between them as they kiss, and Loki can't avoid gently pulling his fingers through those curls.
She bites his collarbone and he chuckles. She bites his throat and he gasps, closing his eyes and turning his head to expose more of his neck to her. Lexie could mark him from from head to toe and he thinks he would thank her for the opportunity. One hand moves to settle against the back of her neck, before drawing thin spirals along her spine. Loki is incredibly hard again and near breathless by the time Lexie moves on from his pulse point. ]
It is too much again, but not in the way it was; it is not too much because she cannot handle the tangled onslaught of grief and joy, present and memory, every nerve alive to him, everything meaning so much more than she can understand. It is that there is too much she wants next.
Years of intimacies beg to be played again, discovered and re-discovered, distilled to bring him to where she is in time. To somehow be slow and explore the whole of him, to hear what he sounds like with her mouth around him, to mark the bared skin of his throat with lips and teeth and gentle him with murmured praise when he gasps and whines. To make him helpless and then hold him. To tease and requite at once. Everything. She wants everything.
She wants everything and doesnβt know how much time she has to have it. She had kissed her husband when he left expecting thousands more. Believing they were already hers, it was only that she had yet to spend their years together collecting them one by one like bright little flowers growing wild in the vast fields of the life they had promised one another.
The simplest want wins, urged on by the way he strains against her taut and hard: to be as close as she can, to hold him inside her.
She reaches down for him by feel alone, continuing to nip and kiss at the stretch of his neck he had offered her all the while. Gently wraps her fingers around the heated velvet of his cock as she positions herself against the tip and rocks slightly against itβ a skimming almost dip into her own heatβ and waits, as he had, for him to somehow tell her she can. ]
[ Loki's breath comes out a sharp exhalation as she touches him and brings his cock so close to her only to wait; it takes a great deal of self-control to keep his hips still at that moment. His heels press into the blankets and bedding as his fingers draw across the skin of her back. Her face is still against the skin of his neck so he can't signal his acquiescence with a look, a nod. Instead, he has to swallow, and murmur roughly: ]
Please.
[ He is not a man particularly built for begging on the surface of things, though matters of the bedroom make it changeable in that regard along with almost all others. Still. He would like to believe he will have at least a few more opportunities to prove to her just how much he is hers, if only she'll have him. ]
You have my... [ another noise, low in his throat, a quiet growl as her teeth skim some place earlier worried into a bruise blossoming beneath the skin, ] imprimatur, as it were.
[ If she pulls her mouth away from his throat he'll watch her face; otherwise, he will let his eyes shut, and his hands drift towards her hips as he remembers how to breathe all over again. ]
[ He pleads and it makes her breath catch, stolen by the way he wants her.
And then, slowly, she presses back onto him.
The moment he is seated enough in her that there is no more need for guide, her hands are seeking for his to twine with them and draw them the rest of the way to her hips as she moves.
If she has her way it will be slow; so much she wants to feel every moment of the way she fills herself with him. To show him what it does to herβ what he does to herβ with the way her head tips back as she sinks down, lips parting on panted breath that becomes half-voiced moan. She flutters around him, quick moments of her body gripping at him that she cannot help and does not want to. Nor can she help the tiny movement that rocks her hips against his when finally they meet, or the way it makes her softly whine each time she does. ]
[ She has her way; it's a slow entry, almost achingly so, and Loki's fingers entwined with hers at her hips squeeze and then relax as she settles, only for him to grasp again as her body tightens around him. Lexie looks stunning above him with her head tilted back and red hair cascading around her shoulders, making small noises that Loki wishes to memorize each note of.
The hedonist in him wants more, immediately, and he can't really help the way his hips lift off the bed to meet her as she's coming down, nor the groan of satisfaction that escapes his lips in the next moment. He is, at least, able to restrain himself enough not to start off too fast or move too harshly against her, but keeping still is simply not in the cards.
Really, he's showing remarkable discipline at this moment in time.
Loki's hands disentangle themselves from hers. One remains at her hip while the other takes a lazy path toward her navel and then down, reaching between them, thumb searching for her clit in order to rub against the sensitive skin and nerve endings he'll find there. ]
[ She knows the ways their bodies fit together, shows him with her hand on his where he can settle fingers into the crease of her hip, gives breathy murmurs of direction for the placement of his thumb until heβs rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, the slight arch of her back, another tight clench of her cunt around him when itβs right.
For all that there are shades of this that are familiar, some near identical, itβs different. They do not know each otherβs rhythms yet, the sounds that had become better than words at speaking of what is wanted, needed. What he needs, perhaps, is different. What she finds she needs may be so as well.
But Alexandrie trusts theyβll find it, something of their own. That he is so much like her husband had laid the paths of her open; that he is not her husband means she does not know what will be found along them. For the moment she is reaching back to brace her hands on his thighs, breasts lifting as she curves her back like a bow. Spreading her knees wider to lay herself open to the press of his thumb and meeting each lift of his hips with a sinuous roll of her own, letting all the little breaths and gasps and moans born from how he angles in her, how she drags against his hand, fall readily from her lips as they are made. ]
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It is not until he kisses her nose and draws away that she is stirred from her reverie; the incongruous innocence of it bringing her back to herself. Her eyes flutter open, and she glows. Smiles at him under summer sky eyes as if she had slept and wakened and there was no-one in the world she would rather find herself next to, and wrinkles her nose sweetly.
Then she watches him; raising herself on her elbows in the blankets, her gaze tracing over the lines and shapes of him as he reveals them. Looking at the way the last light brushes highlight, pools in shadow, shifts and plays over him as he moves, intent and still as she is in the moments between choosing the land she will paint and when she begins to mix the colours she will use to save her sight of it forever.
And she loves him. She loves him like she loves the sea: because he is beautiful, and because she must. Because it was written in her bones when she was made.
Perhaps it was before she was made. Perhaps Thedas is the dream of gods, and somewhen, far away, unbeknownst to himself, the God of Mischief dreamed her into being. Dreamed another self for her, and finally has come to find her for himself.
Perhaps not.
But to Alexandrie it does not matter how a thing is true, it only matters that it is.
When he has bared himself and sits by her, traces figures across her skin as her husband was wont to do when he wrought his magic, when he was nervous, the runes are different. Not all of the patterns are. For a moment her eyes shine with tears of recognition, but she is smiling, and they do not fall. Instead she blinks them away, and sits up slowly to reach for him. To touch his hair, his face, run her fingersβ uninterrupted nowβ along the slope of his shoulders, down his arms. To take his hands. Tug at them gently. Pull him to her as she sinks back down. ]
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Being unable to tell just how destructive of an idea that may be means that his lips part, but nothing is said. Loki swallows. Feels her gaze upon him.
Lexie looks at him with love; he's seen it before, but never directed at himself, not like this, searingly hot like the touch of the coldest thing to unprepared flesh. She looks at him, not just at the collection of poor decisions and bad behavior, not through or past him to only his name and his birthright or the shadow of his brother that falls darkest in his heart above all others. She sees him, this kaleidoscope of fragmented and frosted glass, and she gazes upon him with love in her eyes and so when she takes his hands his breath has gone shaky again and he laces their fingers together.
It's easy to be pulled down by her, and he intends to take his time, to kiss her face and her throat and her chest and her fingers. He wants to be sweet, and gentle, and memorable for her. The friction caused by the brush of his cock against the inside of her thigh as he settles between her legs has him reconsidering that position, causing him to gasp and shut his eyes long enough to reign his body's nerve endings into some semblance of behavior.
He lets go of one hand in order to cup the side of her face, fingers spread from the very edge of her lips to the lobe of her ear. His thumb pressed against her lower lip as he looks in her eyes for permission to continue forward. ]
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She shivers at the way opens her to him, taking his thumb between her teeth to gently bite away some of how it overwhelms her simply to have the length of him pressed against her, how even so she lifts her hips to seek for more. Her breath already shudders shallowly, heart already pounds just to meet his eyes and see the question there.
For a long moment she stops breathing, holding still as she looks at him with a near painful vulnerability. And then she softens slowly. Her bite releases into a press of her lips. Her freed hand slides to rest just below his shoulder as if setting for a dance, the one that still holds his tightens its grip, and she exhales ]
Yes.
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If she did ask him to stop, that would be it. He would rock back on his heels, give her space. It would have to be fine because he is many things, a great deal of them terrible, but the sort of man to ignore an indication to halt at this point is not one of them.
In some turn of a miracle, she doesn't turn him away. She says yes like it's a holy thing, settles him with a touch instead and Loki lets out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding, some of the tension in his shoulders ebbing out beneath her hand. He moves the hand entangled with hers up above her head, slowly, and breathes as evenly as he can (which isn't that even at this point, really) as his hips slide against hers.
She's soft, and warm, and wet, and pliant, and he can't look away from her eyes. Scans across her face as he settles within her, having to catch his breath all over again. The hand at her face moves to tangle his fingers in the curls of her hair. ]
Alexandrie, [ he murmurs, soft as he moves against her, because a nickname is not enough when they're entangled and entwined like this. She had said she would break, if her name was uttered in his voice, and he'll take responsibility for that now. Will hold her pieces and allow her to reform in his hands. ]
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And then too much. Suddenly far too much. He will be able to see the wildness of it in her eyes as she tries to focus and can't, hear the edges of her breaths turn sharp and desperate. She gasps a word in a language he won't know. A second in another language, this one matching the sounds of her accent. Then, in Trade: ]
Wait. [ She is curling into him as she can, burying her face in his neck, half-sobbing the words. ] Wait. [ And then ] Please. [ And then, brittle and frantic, ] Stay.
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He wants to know what she's said. What he's done. Clearly, he was not as prepared for her to break as he thought, because his heart is in his throat and he can't swallow past it. She has every right to throw him out, he realizes; she'd only asked him for the one thing.
It's her voice at the end of that has him closing his eyes, stroking her hair. He won't move again otherwise. ]
I'm not going anywhere, [ he tells her, trying to keep his voice soothing, lips near the shell of her ear. ] Mitt hjerte i brann, hmm? I'm afraid you're stuck with me.
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I shall keep you. Forever, I thinkβ ]
Where is he?
[ It is piteous and heartbroken and she does not expect an answer. She is not asking the man who holds her now, although she clings to him. She asks it of the world. For him, sobbed as she shakes her head against him: ]
Do not make me promises. Do not. The future is not anyone's to give.
[ She pulls back to look at him and in the glassy anguish of her eyes are the tears he had wanted, the salt against her skin. ]
Give me now. Do not say I can have anything more. I cannot bear it.
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She clings, but she asks questions he can't answer and makes demands he would very much like to ignore. He knows that he can't predict the future, can't promise her he won't be yanked out of this place or fall through the Fade or whatever in Hel is supposed to have happened to make him arrive in the first place. He knows, but he doesn't care.
He would swear fealty to her if she'd let him.
Loki catches one of those tears as it escapes her eye and rolls down her cheek. Rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. ]
Whatever you want, [ he says seriously, somewhat aware that might not be... the thing she wants to hear, exactly, but it is the truth. ]
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[ Truth for truth, delivered with a passion that lies as close to madness as she to him. There is no-one she has ever loved who has not left her. No-one she loves who she trusts will not. It is dark water in her foundation that crumbles and eats a yawning space beneath the fields above it, waiting for collapse. ]
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[ The hand that has been holding hers all this time stretches its fingers out as he shifts his weight a little off of her. He intends to roll onto his side and pull her with him if she's willing to allow for that; to wrap his limbs and the blankets around her, and kiss her forehead. ]
I don't know how I got here, to your Thedas. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or an hour from now. [ He brushes a few tears away. ] I do know this: as long as I'm here, you shan't be rid of me.
[ Is that close enough to forever? ]
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There is never enough time, she remembers.
Eventually Alexandrie stirs herself enough to wrap herself around him in return as best she can, tucking her head beneath his chin, and nods there. ]
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When he does speak it's quiet; he's not entirely certain she's still awake. ]
I've always been terrified of being alone.
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Sheβs awake, listening. ]
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[ He doesn't really know... what to say, in this moment. How anything about himself could be useful to her, right now. ]
I know that can't be easy.
[ Loving him. Any version of him. Because he is, at his core, a terrible and chaotic person. One who makes decisions based on how interesting the effects may be, and less on how good it will be for those involved. ]
And I know it isn't the same.
[ He isn't her husband. Who may still be alive; Lokis survive, after all. But who may not be, and in his focus on keeping the look in her eyes for himself he didn't completely think through what that knowledge must have been doing to her for the last seven months. ]
no subject
Alexandrie is not at her most beautiful. She wears none of her customary cosmetic to go to battle; it is replaced by the dust of combat, that dust cut through by the tracks of those tears that rimmed her eyes with red. Although the braid remains largely intact, the hair closest to her face is a muss of escaped tendrils, pulled half-free by his hand in them.
But in her eyes, what of them he can see in the gathering darkness, is the tranquility of a lake at sunrise. A kind of surety that can be no more denied than rain. ]
Loki.
[ It is soft, her voice a match to her eyes. The hand that traces his back withdraws, returns again as a whisper of a touch against his cheek. ]
Loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done.
It is like breath. It comes without thought; with thought it makes me calm and still. Stifled, I struggle. Taken, I die.
[ Dramatic, perhaps; but she is calm and still in saying it, as if it is something she knows as simple truth. Like rain.
Her thumb strokes along his cheekbone. ]
It is not the same, no. I would not wish it so. What is his is his.
[ A breath. ]
And what is yours is yours.
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What does he have to give her in return? A fallen god, from another world far away, and yet not even the first to his name here. His heart feels like such a small thing, a fruit that was left in the sun for too long, sweetnesses all gone bitter. She deserves something whole and hale and open for her, but it's all he has to offer.
His thumb comes up to rub across the plane of her cheekbone, a perfect echo of her gesture.
Loki opens his mouth to say something and then has to shut it again when the noise he makes isn't words but a small sob.
Shutting his eyes does nothing to stop the tears, but they're going to happen anyway. ]
Alright.
[ Does he even know what, exactly, he's agreeing to?
It doesn't matter. ]
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There is quiet in her heart, finally quiet, and it beats into her body and makes her settle again against him like a sigh.
And then, on an inhale through her nose, that kiss has parted lips and asks for more. ]
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She knows him and loves him and is very much like him and the dagger settling between his ribs turns.
It is not a shock, the tonal shift; her body is warm in his arms and his body still half remembers the feel of her around him. Besides which he's mentally somewhere beyond shock in the moment, somewhere that reminds him very much of falling through the Void. Yet Lexie's parting lips bring him solidly back into his body and into the moment. He kisses back, open and passionate and wanting all over again, pulling her close just in order to roll them further in his direction. This means that she ends up on top of his chest as he lays on his back, kissing her throughout. ]
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At some point she pulls back to let free her hair. To rake quick fingers through the braid to turn it to a tumble of loose copper curls that curtain them in that scent of woody roses when she bends again to kiss him, dragging their soft tickle over his chest when she tracks her kisses from mouth to jaw, to shoulder; to nip at his collarbone and smooth the spot with her tongue before she is drawn upwards again by instinct memory to fasten her mouth and draw at the place where his pulse beats just below his ear that had always made her husband gasp. ]
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She bites his collarbone and he chuckles. She bites his throat and he gasps, closing his eyes and turning his head to expose more of his neck to her. Lexie could mark him from from head to toe and he thinks he would thank her for the opportunity. One hand moves to settle against the back of her neck, before drawing thin spirals along her spine. Loki is incredibly hard again and near breathless by the time Lexie moves on from his pulse point. ]
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It is too much again, but not in the way it was; it is not too much because she cannot handle the tangled onslaught of grief and joy, present and memory, every nerve alive to him, everything meaning so much more than she can understand. It is that there is too much she wants next.
Years of intimacies beg to be played again, discovered and re-discovered, distilled to bring him to where she is in time. To somehow be slow and explore the whole of him, to hear what he sounds like with her mouth around him, to mark the bared skin of his throat with lips and teeth and gentle him with murmured praise when he gasps and whines. To make him helpless and then hold him. To tease and requite at once. Everything. She wants everything.
She wants everything and doesnβt know how much time she has to have it. She had kissed her husband when he left expecting thousands more. Believing they were already hers, it was only that she had yet to spend their years together collecting them one by one like bright little flowers growing wild in the vast fields of the life they had promised one another.
The simplest want wins, urged on by the way he strains against her taut and hard: to be as close as she can, to hold him inside her.
She reaches down for him by feel alone, continuing to nip and kiss at the stretch of his neck he had offered her all the while. Gently wraps her fingers around the heated velvet of his cock as she positions herself against the tip and rocks slightly against itβ a skimming almost dip into her own heatβ and waits, as he had, for him to somehow tell her she can. ]
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Please.
[ He is not a man particularly built for begging on the surface of things, though matters of the bedroom make it changeable in that regard along with almost all others. Still. He would like to believe he will have at least a few more opportunities to prove to her just how much he is hers, if only she'll have him. ]
You have my... [ another noise, low in his throat, a quiet growl as her teeth skim some place earlier worried into a bruise blossoming beneath the skin, ] imprimatur, as it were.
[ If she pulls her mouth away from his throat he'll watch her face; otherwise, he will let his eyes shut, and his hands drift towards her hips as he remembers how to breathe all over again. ]
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And then, slowly, she presses back onto him.
The moment he is seated enough in her that there is no more need for guide, her hands are seeking for his to twine with them and draw them the rest of the way to her hips as she moves.
If she has her way it will be slow; so much she wants to feel every moment of the way she fills herself with him. To show him what it does to herβ what he does to herβ with the way her head tips back as she sinks down, lips parting on panted breath that becomes half-voiced moan. She flutters around him, quick moments of her body gripping at him that she cannot help and does not want to. Nor can she help the tiny movement that rocks her hips against his when finally they meet, or the way it makes her softly whine each time she does. ]
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The hedonist in him wants more, immediately, and he can't really help the way his hips lift off the bed to meet her as she's coming down, nor the groan of satisfaction that escapes his lips in the next moment. He is, at least, able to restrain himself enough not to start off too fast or move too harshly against her, but keeping still is simply not in the cards.
Really, he's showing remarkable discipline at this moment in time.
Loki's hands disentangle themselves from hers. One remains at her hip while the other takes a lazy path toward her navel and then down, reaching between them, thumb searching for her clit in order to rub against the sensitive skin and nerve endings he'll find there. ]
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For all that there are shades of this that are familiar, some near identical, itβs different. They do not know each otherβs rhythms yet, the sounds that had become better than words at speaking of what is wanted, needed. What he needs, perhaps, is different. What she finds she needs may be so as well.
But Alexandrie trusts theyβll find it, something of their own. That he is so much like her husband had laid the paths of her open; that he is not her husband means she does not know what will be found along them. For the moment she is reaching back to brace her hands on his thighs, breasts lifting as she curves her back like a bow. Spreading her knees wider to lay herself open to the press of his thumb and meeting each lift of his hips with a sinuous roll of her own, letting all the little breaths and gasps and moans born from how he angles in her, how she drags against his hand, fall readily from her lips as they are made. ]
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