He would like it if she told him she was his, and he will never get tired of reassurance, no matter if they wed and rule Jotunheim together for centuries to come. Loki is all too skilled at questioning himself and anything good that is placed in his arms. But she is in his arms now, and she's placed herself there, and the way she clasps him and returns his passion is as clear as any words could be. She is here by choice. She chooses Loki, and not Thor, and not Asgard.
There's light in her eyes when he draws back and sinks down. She is too canny to fall for his silver tongue, but she knows by now when he says something he means, particularly in the heat of desire and affection. Lust makes some men liars, but it makes Loki far more honest.
"Let them," he says, "Anyone who caught us would only envy me, as they should."
His eyes meet hers, blood red and hungry, but there's something surprisingly soft underlying that, almost tender. Almost adoring. You're here.
He has to push her skirt aside with one hand--she does have a point, blue silk would be much easier to gather and hold out of the way than her leathers--but he wastes no time with her request. His cheeks are cool against her thighs; the bridge of his nose rubs against her through her underthings, and then there's a wash of warm breath, because even Jotnarr breathe out air that's hotter than the outer layers of their bodies. It's probably a tease the way he starts, a game, nuzzling her through the fabric of her smallclothes. He even licks, the surface of his tongue not quite making enough contact to be satisfying. Gradually, though, between the wetness of his mouth and the wetness coming from her, the cloth will be soaked.
That's the point at which he opts to remind her that he still has magic: the shimmer of his power isn't easily visible thanks to the angle, but she can feel the tingle against her legs, can feel the fabric covering her unravel and disappear as if it has simply dissolved into the air.
"Don't worry, they'll turn up later," he tells her with a flash of boyish humor, voice muffled between her thighs.
no subject
There's light in her eyes when he draws back and sinks down. She is too canny to fall for his silver tongue, but she knows by now when he says something he means, particularly in the heat of desire and affection. Lust makes some men liars, but it makes Loki far more honest.
"Let them," he says, "Anyone who caught us would only envy me, as they should."
His eyes meet hers, blood red and hungry, but there's something surprisingly soft underlying that, almost tender. Almost adoring. You're here.
He has to push her skirt aside with one hand--she does have a point, blue silk would be much easier to gather and hold out of the way than her leathers--but he wastes no time with her request. His cheeks are cool against her thighs; the bridge of his nose rubs against her through her underthings, and then there's a wash of warm breath, because even Jotnarr breathe out air that's hotter than the outer layers of their bodies. It's probably a tease the way he starts, a game, nuzzling her through the fabric of her smallclothes. He even licks, the surface of his tongue not quite making enough contact to be satisfying. Gradually, though, between the wetness of his mouth and the wetness coming from her, the cloth will be soaked.
That's the point at which he opts to remind her that he still has magic: the shimmer of his power isn't easily visible thanks to the angle, but she can feel the tingle against her legs, can feel the fabric covering her unravel and disappear as if it has simply dissolved into the air.
"Don't worry, they'll turn up later," he tells her with a flash of boyish humor, voice muffled between her thighs.