asgardianintern

[asgardianintern]

Hope in the Storm-Part Five

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Her heart crashed to a stop in her chest, her lungs seizing as if in protest of this news. She was reeling, her mind racing; despite the staggering amount of sex they had, she had never considered pregnancy to be a possibility. Since she was young, she'd had a condition that she was told would prevent her from conceiving, that nothing short of surgery could fix it. At the time, she was indifferent about having children, and had dismissed the option of surgery. As she had grown, she had been periodically sad with her inability to carry a child naturally, but she made her peace with it, resigned to the fact that her womb would never be able to harbor life. Subsequently, when she and Loki became sexually active, she had not insisted he use protection. What would be the point when the chances of her conceiving were almost nothing? The key word being almost.

Her first reaction was denial. "There's no way that's possible. I can't get pregnant, you know that." Once, Loki had broached the subject of children, and she had told him of her condition. He had seemed sad at first, but he had covered her in kisses and assured her that she was no less a woman for it, that he didn't love her any less.

Again, glowing spirals of his magic sunk beneath her skin, and after a moment, they disappeared. He shook his head slightly, a dazed look on his face as he absently stroked his thumbs over her hips. "I'm certain of it, my love."

Dumbfounded, Mercy sat up, leaning back on her elbows and staring down at Loki, her face pale, her eyes as wide as saucers, her lips trembling slightly. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely." 

A thousand emotions flickered back and forth in her eyes; fear, worry, happiness, disbelief, panic, acceptance, pride, and wonder all made an appearance. Slowly, a smile spread across her face, though it was tremulous and unstable. 

"We're going to have a baby," she whispered. "You're going to be a father." She reached down and grasped Loki's hand with one of her own, her grip so tight that her knuckles whitened. "And I'm..." The sentence she left unfinished, as if speaking the word would break her heart.

Loki's eyes shone with emotion that threatened to brim over, though his expression was one of absolute joy. "You're going to be a mother," he finished for her, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

Before she knew it, Loki had crawled up beside her, his arms circling her and holding her tightly as she shook, his own body trembling against hers as they wept together. This child, their child, was a miracle. By all physical means, it should have been impossible. But, she reasoned in the back of her mind, she was sleeping with someone whose very existence should also be impossible. It made sense, in a twisted way, and though this was happy news, she was conflicted. For years, she had been accustomed to the idea that she would never have children, and even though she had looked longingly at tiny baby clothes and felt a small twinge of jealousy when she saw young mothers out in public, never once had she considered that children could be part of her future. And now, with Loki's baby growing inside her, the reality of motherhood was looming over her. What kind of parent would she be? How could she possibly care for a baby? What was she supposed to do about doctor's visits, prenatal care? And what was she going to do if she had to raise their child alone?

A chill ran through her at the thought, icy tendrils coiling around her heart. Mercy wanted to be hopeful that it would work out in her favor, that Loki would be allowed to return home with her. They could figure out parenthood together; he would be there when the baby began to kick, when they found out if they were having a girl or a boy. He could see their child come into this world.  

But for her own sake, she forced herself to be realistic. It was likely Loki would be imprisoned, but for how long nobody seemed to be able to tell her. And though she felt a sharp ache in her chest every time she thought about it, it was entirely possible that Odin would put Loki to death. How was she supposed to deal with losing her dearest love while raising their child alone? Was she strong enough to handle it if the time ever came?

A gentle tap to her forehead brought her out of her turbulent thoughts, and she looked up to see Loki smiling down at her. His eyes were warm, but there were flickers of sadness threaded through the green, as if he had guessed what she was thinking about. Mercy did her best to return his smile, but when her lips couldn't seem to form it, she pressed them to his, aligning the curve of her mouth to his. Loki surrounded her with his body, wrapping himself completely around her and kissing her like a priest at communion, with reverence and humility and hope. Her fingers carded through his hair, combing out the tangles and smoothing it against his temples and the nape of his neck. For the first time since she had woken up that morning, Mercy felt safe.

As usually happens between two people who are hopelessly in love and frightened of the future, their gentle touches soon became clumsy and hurried by passion. Mercy wasn't exactly sure when Loki had taken off her nightgown, if he had peeled it off, ripped it open, or just magicked it away, but as he suckled greedily at first one nipple, then the other, she didn't really give it much thought. It wasn't long before she was ready, her body wet and warm and aching for him. She reached down and rubbed her palm over the straining leather that was the only barrier between her hand and his cock, but before she could slip her hand into his trousers to stroke him, Loki grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand from him, shooting her a warning look.

Before she could ask why he'd removed her hand, he'd edged his way down her body until he was kneeling on the floor at the end of the cot, his hand tugging at her ankles to bring her to the edge. Loki placed her feet on his shoulders, wrapped his arms around her thighs to hold her still, and buried his head between her legs. Mercy let out a whine as his tongue parted her swollen folds, biting down hard on her lip when he sucked at her clit. It felt sensational, as it always did, but this time, this wasn't what she wanted. She'd given him a very clear sign that she wanted him inside her. Why had he refused her?

"Loki," she murmured, threading her hands through his hair. As if he hadn't heard her, or was hoping to distract her, he slid two fingers inside her as his tongue massaged her clit, switching between slow circles with the flat of his tongue and teasing flicks with the tip. Mercy gave a jolt and a cry, but she wasn't sidetracked for long. Her tugs at his hair became more insistent, until finally, Loki raised his head with a sigh.

"I'm trying to make you come, woman. Cooperate with me, please."

Mercy shot him a pleading look. "I want you inside of me, Loki. Now."

Again, Loki tried to distract her, spreading open her lips and rubbing his thumb in circles around her clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make her squeal. "Don't you want this? You've always loved the way I can twist you into knots with my hands, the way I can make you dance on the tip of my tongue. You love that I know just where to stroke..." His fingers ran along the inside of her lips, teasing the sensitive inner lining. "And where to lick..."

"Loki..." she whined, squirming against the soft furs. "Why won't you make love to me?"

His teasing touches stopped cold, his hands falling to the bed as he buried his head in her stomach, his breath warm as he sighed. "I don't..." he began uncertainly, reaching up to seek her hand with his own, his fingers warm and solid between hers. "I don't want to hurt the baby." His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, murmured against her skin like a confession, and Mercy realized that while he historically had children of his own, had even birthed one himself, he had no idea what physical toll his progeny would take on her, or how delicate the child was. He was scared; in these bare moments where his very life could hang in the balance, he was scared for the safety of her and their baby.  

She smiled softly, reaching with her free hand to lift his head from her. "You won't," she whispered soothingly, stroking his hair back from his forehead. "She's still very small, and as long as you don't get too rough, she'll be perfectly safe."

"She?" Loki raised his eyebrows, leaning his face into her hand. Mercy hadn't meant to say 'she,' but as it came out of her mouth, it felt right to say.

Her thumb traced the curve of his lower lip, humming as he kissed it, scraped his teeth against her skin. "The baby will be fine, Loki. We both will be." Her hands grasped his shoulders, pulled him up to her kiss. Her legs wrapped around his hips, opening herself up to him, just as she had opened her heart and home to him. "It'll be alright, sweetie," she murmured against his mouth. "Don't be afraid." 

Loki's eyes searched hers, shining with love and uncertainty, and he relented, his lips crashing upon hers like waves upon a shore, his hands shaking as he pushed his breeches down and guided himself to her entrance. There was a moment of hesitation, but it was blessedly brief, and he entered her slowly, with reverence. She threw her head back, wanting to close her eyes against the sheer pleasure of being filled and surrounded by him, but she wouldn't. She would not waste a single moment of this night, this momentous night. 

His hands cupped her breasts, his face buried against her throat as he rocked against her, not a single movement hurried. This was not a time for frantic lust or blinding passion. This was a time for love, for comfort, for slow-burning pleasure and a thousand tender kisses. Hours passed like mere minutes, yet it felt as though they had been joined for days. And when she finally eased into her release, the agonizing ache all the more sweet for its long build, it felt as though whatever gods looked down upon them now had taken pity on the two lovers, had stopped time around them to allow this one, shining moment. Loki had finished only seconds after her, coming with a broken groan and a murmur of her name, the syllables like an ancient prayer on his tongue. They collapsed together, man, woman, and their unborn child, upon that small bed covered in rumpled furs, and though they tried to keep their exhaustion at bay, it wasn't long before their eyes drifted shut, asleep in a tangle of limbs, unaware of the chaos beyond the prison walls, for the time unafraid of what the future might bring.

[asgardianintern]

The Witching Hour

AN: This is the sequel to Sunrise, written with love and admiration to my platonic soul-mate and best friend @strainedrex34 thank you for being so patient with me, I’m sorry this took so long my love.

Tossing and grunting, sweat pooled on his furrowed brow as he struggled to wake from the nightmare that gripped him. The sheets were bunched in his fist, tangled around his legs, his muscles tensing, tensing until with a gasp, he wrenched himself awake. Bucky sat bolt upright, shoulders heaving with his breath as the details of the nightmare, only moments ago so vivid, began to fade. The bad dreams were fewer and further between now, but they still hit him like a freight train some nights. Sighing, he ran his hands through his damp, shaggy hair and reached out to touch her sleeping form. But where he was expecting to find the warm curve of her hip, he found only cold, empty air and a pile of rumpled blankets where she should have been.

Confused, he rubbed his eyes and looked around for her, hoping to see her in one of the darkened corners of her bedroom, but she was nowhere to be found. The digital alarm clock she kept on her vanity showed the time to be 3:27 am, what his mother had always called the "witching hour"; though they were both night owls, she should have come to bed by now. Blinking, he got to his feet, his ears pricked up for any sound, his muscles tensed in preparation and against the rising tide of panic. A blade of yellow light was shining under the closed bedroom door, and he followed it, easing the door open and stepping into the hall.

Relief flooded through him as he saw her sitting on the couch in the living room-for a few gutwrenching moments, he had feared the worst-but his heart sank again when he heard the soft, stifled sounds of her crying. And caught sight of the kitchen shears clenched in her right hand and the scattered chunks of hair lying on the coffee table. Bucky let out a sigh, hoping the sound would alert her to his presence, and slowly crept forward, not wanting to startle her. When he was close enough, he touched her shoulder with his left hand, the sensors embedded in the vibranium recognizing the warmth of her skin. He had found that during a bad night like this, it was best to touch her with his metal hand, because that was how she identified him. That was how he grounded her.

Even so, she flinched under his hand, and he leaned down to brush the top of her head with a kiss. "It's just me," he rasped.

"Did I wake you up?" Her voice was small, thick with tears, and it tore at his heart. Tracing the curve of her shoulder, he shook his head. She sniffed, a tiny, broken sound. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Throwing a muscular leg over the back of the couch, he slid down onto the cushion beside her. "What happened?" A stifled sob that could have been a mumbled sentence was his only answer. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and took her hands in both of his, gently plucking the shears from her palm and folding their hands together. "You can tell me when you're ready."

There were a few minutes of heavy silence, lingering like smoke in the air, before she squeezed her hands around his and took a deep breath, wiping the tears from her face. "I just...I forgot where I was. I forgot what year it was, and for a second, I was afraid that he..." She stopped, swallowed hard, eyes screwed shut against a wave of fresh tears. "I was afraid that he was coming after me." Bucky nodded, understanding all too well the all-consuming terror of the ones you feared the most relentlessly tracking you down, even if it was all in your head. "I started panicking, and I wasn't really thinking clearly, and the only thing I could think of to do was..." She paused, gesturing at the pile of hair on the table. "To cut my hair so he wouldn't recognize me." A sob broke through, and her fingers tightened around his, her grip so fierce it would have bruised anyone else. "So that he couldn't grab hold of it ever again."

Bucky was silent for a few heart-wrenching moments, fighting back the urge to crush her against him, to cage her in his arms as a shield against anything that would dare to threaten her. But what she needed now was not a cage. What she needed was reassurance, and he sighed, reaching up to touch the inexpertly cut strands of her hair. "You know," he started, his voice low, "I used to cut my own hair when I was a kid. Steve and I taught ourselves, practiced on each other. Accidentally gave him a bowl cut once." His soul leapt to hear a tiny, water-logged laugh. "I could fix this for you, if you want."

For a moment, she was still, then her delicate fingers slid along his hand, tracing the veins and ridges of bone along his knuckles. "James..." she whispered, finally raising her head to look him fully in the face. Her grey-blue eyes were bloodshot and still shedding quiet tears, two red patches slapped across her arched cheekbones, a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Obviously, she had been trying very hard to keep her sobs quiet, he guessed for his sake, and the ache in his chest deepened for her. Smiling, Bucky reached up with his free hand, his metal hand, and with a feather-light touch, brushed away a tear trembling by her mouth.

"It's okay." She only called him James when she was at her most vulnerable, her most open and wounded. He'd grown so used to the name Bucky, the name his childhood friend had given him, that James seemed foreign and surreal. He would sit with her, soothe her, calm her, until she could call him Bucky again.

Brushing a kiss over her knuckles, he stood and went to the kitchen, flipping lights on along the way. Working briskly, he laid a towel down on the floor to catch the cut hair and pulled up an old wooden chair next to the sink. He glanced up to see her standing in the doorway, her toes on the line where carpet met hardwood, picking her lip and staring at the floor. His smile was gentle, his touch gentler still as he took her elbow, guiding her to sit in the chair. He hummed a song, some new melody that he couldn't remember the words to but always seemed to make her happy, as she laid her head back in the sink and let him run warm water over her hair. A line appeared between her brows, then smoothed out as she allowed a quiet smile to curve her lips, her hand falling to her side and her eyes meeting his at last.  

"Are you humming Shape of You?"

Bucky laughed, running his fingers through the unevenly cut strands. "You play it so much, it keeps getting stuck in my head." Her smiled widened, a tiny sparkle returning to her slate-grey eyes as she began murmuring the lyrics along to his tune. They sang together as he washed her hair, their voices growing louder and more sure as he sat her forward, catching the drips in her hair with another towel, turning her so she was sitting in the light. Eventually, Bucky began singing songs he'd loved in his childhood, some Judy Garland, some Andrews Sisters, a little Fred Astaire. Love songs, mostly. He was no Frank Sinatra, but he could carry a tune well enough (better than Steve could, he'd always bragged), and she seemed to enjoy the soft baritone of his voice. Her hair was easy enough; there was enough left to fashion into what the kids today called a "pixie cut", short in back and long in front. The ends of her hair now brushed the line of her jaw, and he was relieved as he handed her a mirror to see her smile. 

"Buck...it's wonderful. I love it." She stood and wrapped her arms around his neck, her damp hair cool against his chin as she pressed her entire body against him, warm and solid and secure. "Thank you for this."

Bucky in turn banded his arms tightly around her, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and her perfume and the unnameable and instantly calming scent of her skin. "Anytime, doll," he rumbled in her ear, rubbing her back softly. They embraced for a few moments, the world seeming to slow down around them to allow this extended moment of peace. Then, it ended with a yawn. She covered her mouth and withdrew from his as far as his grasp would allow.

"Sorry," she mumbled, her eyelids fluttering to half-mast.

"It's fine." Bucky kissed her forehead, then released her. "Why don't you go on to bed? I'll clean up here in and be in in a minute, okay?"

She nodded, a smile once again curving her lips as she gave him a quiet goodnight, disappearing into the shadows of the open bedroom doorway. He heard the springs on the mattress creak as she got into bed, and sighed contentedly, fishing the broom out from its place between the refrigerator and the wall. He swept up the hair from the kitchen and living room, put the scissors away, and threw the damp towels into the hamper before switching off the lights and joining her beneath the covers. He kissed her, long and slow and deep, just as the digital clock blinked over to 5 am. The witching hour was over, the crisis had passed. And as the sky began to turn grey and the birds began to stir from their roosts, they drifted from the waking world, tangled in the comfort of each other's arms.

[asgardianintern]

Hope in the Storm-Part Four

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

She tried to sleep, did everything she could think of to turn her mind off and rest. But even though the bed was large and soft, covered in luxurious furs with a comforting fire flickering in the hearth nearby, she could not get comfortable. The bed seemed too large, like it could swallow her whole, and though the fire cast its heat throughout the entire room, she still found herself chilled. She missed the warmth of Loki's body, missed the closeness of his arms around her. She hadn't noticed it, because since that first night, they had never slept apart, but it seemed she couldn't get to sleep unless he was with her. That had never been the case before; she had always slept alone. Her heart gave a funny lurch in her chest as she realized just how deeply Loki was entwined in her life now.

After a couple of hours trying fruitlessly to sleep, she clambered out of bed, gathering the skirt of the gauzy white nightgown she had found in the wardrobe around her hips to keep it from getting tangled around her legs. Her bare feet padding against the cold marble floor, she crept to the door, hoping to find the queen and ask if she could be taken to Loki.

Outside the door, a burly guard in strange armor stood watch, his steely grey eyes darting to her as she opened the door. "Lady Mercy," he greeted with a curt nod. "Is everything alright?"

"Um," she floundered, not expecting to meet someone outside her door. Realizing that out in the chill of the corridor, her nightgown did little to preserve her modesty, and she crossed her arms over her breasts. "I can't sleep," she said lamely. The guard said nothing, but raised one eyebrow, as if to say, And? She sighed, gritting her teeth. "Do you know where they're keeping Loki?"  

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. The guard's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "In the dungeons," he said. Where he belongs, his eyes added silently.

"Can you take me to him, please?"

A cruel little smile twisted the guard's chapped lips. "I am afraid, my lady, that criminals are not allowed visitors. I must ask you to return to your room."

For a second, she was stunned into silence at the malicious satisfaction in the guard's voice. Quickly, however, her awkwardness was reduced to hot ash in her outrage over this guard's disrespect. "Look," she spat, "I don't know who you think you are, but I'm in no mood for this. Now, either you take me to Loki, or I'll get the queen and she can take me, and we'll have a discussion about the lacking standards of the staff here."

The guard glared at her, his hand clenched around his spear, the pointed tip of it descending as if he meant to hold it to her throat. "Return to your room, my lady," he sneered, "or I will force you."

"You can't do that-!"

"Oh, but I can." His hand closed around her wrist in a crushing grip, and Mercy cried out. "Guest of the palace or not, you are still the whore of a man guilty of high treason against the crown." His face was contorted with disgust, and Mercy felt a cold twist of fear in her belly. "Tell me, can you feel the weight of the lives he took when he takes you? When he touches you, can you feel the ice in his filthy Jotun blood?"

"Borg!"

Frigga came sweeping around the corner, her skirts and her unbound hair billowing as she hastened to Mercy's side. The guard, Borg, released her like he had been burned, and bowed deeply, murmuring an apology. The queen's eyes flashed with anger as she saw the red mark around Mercy's wrist that would inevitably bruise. 

"What is the meaning of this?"

Borg's eyes flitted between Mercy and Frigga, his expression slightly panicked. "My apologies, your majesty, but the girl was trying to leave her room-"

"Is it a crime now for guests to roam our halls? Is this how you treat a newcomer, a girl who is strange to our ways? With contempt and anger?" Though she stood a good three inches shorter than the guard, the queen still managed to dwarf him with her power and presence, and Mercy felt glad that Frigga was on her side.

"My queen," Borg continued defensively, "she insisted that I bring her to the prisoner, Loki."

"And you found that reason enough to harm this girl? Shame on you, Borg. I expected better of my guards."

"But my queen-"

"Enough. You are dismissed." The cold tone of her voice and the hard set of her mouth brooked no argument, and Borg nodded tersely and turned on his heel, walking briskly from the corridor.

With a sigh, Frigga's stance relaxed, and she turned to Mercy, who watched her with wide eyes. "Are you alright, my dear?"

"Yeah," she breathed, rubbing her wrist. "I'm okay." Her eyes narrowed as she glanced down the hall to where the guard had turned the corner. "I guess he's not a big fan of Loki, is he?"

Frigga shook her head sadly. "No, I'm afraid most consider him an enemy of the crown. To be associated with him as you are makes you equally as distrusted." Her brow dipped slightly, a crease appearing between her eyes. "Did he say you were trying to see Loki?"

"Yes." To her embarrassment, she blushed, and her hands nervously fiddled with the end of the plait she had put her hair in. "It seems that I can't sleep without him." Her eyes were round and pleading, almost childlike as she silently begged Frigga's understanding. "Please. I need to be with him now. I might not..." Her throat closed up, as if unwilling to let her utter that this might be their last night together. "We need each other. Please, let me spend the night with him."

For a moment, the queen was silent, considering what Mercy asked of her. Odin would never allow Loki a visitor, and would not be pleased if he learned that he'd had one. But after a moment, she set her jaw and nodded. She would not deny Loki the comfort of his love's embrace. She could not keep his heart from him, not when he had only just found it again. "Come with me," she murmured, taking off down the corridor. Mercy followed, her feet tapping briskly against the floor as the two women hurried through the ornate halls. Deeper and deeper into the castle they traveled, Mercy starting to shiver as the air became chilled. They were underground now, deep beneath the earth. The worst of the criminals of Asgard were kept here, as if they were already gone and buried after they'd met with the executioner's blade.

Frigga stopped outside a foreboding set of wooden doors, guarded by two heavily armed men that seemed more reasonable that the one outside of her chamber door. Though they glanced mistrustfully at Mercy, they allowed the queen and her guest through without a word.

Inside, Frigga guided past the cells of other prisoners, their walls made opaque at night to allow some modicum of privacy. In front of a cell larger than the others, the queen stopped, tapping a sequence of symbols onto a pad on the wall beside the cell. Golden light surged across the wall, dispersing into threads that formed a honeycomb pattern of meshwork, and suddenly the wall was transparent, revealing a room furnished more lavishly than any other prison cell in existence. Loki lay on the bed, his hands folded behind his head, still fully dressed and staring at the ceiling, just as unable to sleep as Mercy. Her heart leapt at seeing him again, even though it was through a prison wall. When Loki noticed that his walls had become transparent again, he sat up, his brows knitted together in confusion. His sharp eyes landed on first his mother, then on Mercy. When he saw her, his face softened with comprehension. Long legs extending, he stood and walked to the wall, placing his hand against the barrier. He and Frigga exchanged a long look, years of unspoken words passing between their eyes. In the end, Loki spoke only two words aloud.

"Thank you."

Frigga smiled, the blue of her eyes liquid with tears, and turned to Mercy. "Here, my dear." She motioned for Mercy to hold out her hand, and the queen slipped a bracelet with a strange stone that glowed crimson onto her wrist. "This will allow you to enter the cell, but not to leave. I will come and collect you in the morning, do you understand? You must leave here before the guards come to take Loki to trial."  

Mercy nodded, twisting the bracelet around her wrist. "Thank you, your majesty." Frigga gave her a motherly smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead, grateful that she was able to allow this woman and her son one final night of happiness. Without looking back, she left the dungeons, waiting until she had made it safely back to her chambers before she allowed her tears to fall.

Mercy wasted no time in scrambling through the barrier, almost tripping over the hem of her nightgown as she ran into Loki's waiting arms, clutching desperately at him. Loki crushed her to him, almost unable to believe that she was here in this cell with him, overwhelmed with gratitude for Frigga's compassion. He inhaled the smell of her hair, pleased that it still smelled of her shampoo and not the scent of the oils and perfumes provided in her bathing chamber. She smelled like herself, of their home, of the life they had shared on Midgard, and it comforted him. 

When her grip loosened enough, he cradled her face between his hands and kissed her mouth, a gentle press of closed lips against closed lips. "I am glad you came to me, sweetheart," he whispered.

"I couldn't sleep, not knowing where you were or what was going to happen. I can't sleep without you next to me," she admitted, weaving her hands into the hair that spilled over his shoulders. For a moment, they swayed on the spot, then Loki reached down and swept her legs out from under her, hoisting her into his arms. Mercy's squeal of surprise dissolved into a giggle as Loki carried her over to the cot that served as his bed.

"Then allow me to remedy that. I shall spend every second attending to your comfort, little love," he announced grandly, lying her on the cot and climbing in beside her, pulling the fur blankets over them. Mercy noticed that the walls had become opaque again, and was grateful for it; the manner in which Loki was pressing against her gave her the feeling that they would soon be engaging in activities best unobserved.

Above her, Loki worked his hips between her legs, pressing his stiffening cock against her belly. "If you wish to sleep, Mercy, I am afraid you have come to the wrong bed," he growled playfully against her neck, grinning as he heard her reluctant giggle. His groin pushed against her, as if seeking her heat through two layers of fabric. "I intend to ravish you until the suns rise, and even then it will take an entire battalion to tear me away from you."

Mercy wanted to laugh, but the reminder of their imminent separation at dawn brought a dark cloud over her happiness. Loki must have seen that shadow in her eyes, and he began covering her face in tender kisses. "Be at peace, dear one. We have time."

Smiling at his attempts to reassure her, Mercy wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Mm," she sighed. "You know, this wasn't the way I pictured it, but I always hoped I'd be able to see Asgard someday."

Loki smiled, but it was sad. "I am sorry it had to be like this, Mercy. I had hoped to keep you out of this." He slid the tip of his finger playfully down her nose, from the bridge to the tip. "I should have known your stubbornness would get in the way." He kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, his tongue slipping between her lips to stroke tenderly along hers. Soon, they were both panting, their hips rolling against each other, bodies demanding to be touched while the time was still opportune to do so. Her small, soft hands clutched at his back, holding him to her as her knees clamped around his sides. It didn't matter that this wasn't their bed, that this wasn't their home. She needed him now, this moment; she didn't want to think about Loki's past, or the possibility of a future without him. She needed a distraction from the anxiety of tomorrow's trial, and Mercy knew that he needed her to provide him with a similar distraction. There would be time later to profess their love, to discuss what may come. Now was for pleasure, given and received. Now was for them.

Mercy moaned as he dipped his head to kiss at her throat, but the sound was suddenly choked into a noise of discomfort as her stomach gave another nauseating clench. Loki's sharp ears missed nothing, and his head snapped up.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head. "No, sweetie." Her hand slid between them to press against that part of her stomach that had rolled and interrupted them. "It's just my stomach. That bug's still giving me problems."

"Still?" Loki shifted to the side of her, his expression drawing into one of concern. "Shouldn't it have passed by now, darling?"

Mercy shrugged. "Sometimes these things linger. It's probably nothing."

"I'm not willing to take that chance. You never did go see that doctor, did you?" When she shook her head, Loki leveled a disapproving look at her. "Then will you let me take a look? This cell dampens my magic, but I should still be able to do that much."

She nodded, smoothing Loki's hair back from his forehead as he scooted down the cot, his head just over her belly, his hands pushing up her nightgown to just below her breasts and spanning her ribcage. With a grin, he poked her belly. "I see someone has finally taken my advice and started eating more. You've plumped up nicely, pet."

Mercy smacked his shoulder. "Not a good thing to say to a woman, jackass." It was true, she had gained some weight; squeezing into her jeans had become more of an ordeal of late, and she had taken to wearing yoga pants more often and hoping no one noticed. With as much as she was throwing up, and with no major changes in her diet, she couldn't imagine why she had gained weight, but the evidence was there nonetheless.

Slowly, Loki drew his hands down her stomach, closing his eyes and concentrating. Tendrils of shimmery magic, the same shade of green as his eyes, twisted around his fingers and sunk into her skin; she imagined she could feel them inside her, snaking warmly around beneath her skin, seeking out any anomalies. His hands slid further down, closer to the source of discomfort. Suddenly, as they reached her lower stomach, they stopped, and Mercy heard him pull in a sharp breath, his eyes flying open.

"What?"

He said nothing, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with disbelief and something she interpreted as fear. Panic gripped her; what had he found inside her?

"Loki, you're scaring me. What is it?"

He closed and opened his mouth a few times, as if he had forgotten how to speak. Finally, he let his eyes lock with hers, and she saw something that bordered between terror and...joy?

"Mercy," he breathed, "you're with child."

[asgardianintern]

Hope in the Storm-Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

Shimmering twists of colors and light surrounded them, bearing them through space, through the realms, and finally bringing them to the gates of Asgard. Mercy clutched at her stomach, swaying queasily against Loki, who chuckled. Inside the shining golden sphere of the repaired Bifrost waited Heimdall, resplendent in shining golden armor, nodding to the three as they passed, looking unsurprised to see Mercy there. She had read up on Norse mythology not long after Loki had spent that first night with her, recognized him from the legends she'd read of Ragnarok, and edged closer to Loki, though out of fear or protectiveness, even she wasn't sure. 

Thor exchanged words with the Gatekeeper, the two speaking too low for Mercy to hear, and she huddled close to Loki, trying to stay calm. After all, she had just jumped through another dimension into a land that was only supposed to exist in ancient stories, and everyone here seemed to be seven feet tall, covered in armor, and carrying a sword the size of a picnic table. 

Nodding once, Thor finished speaking with Heimdall and made his way back to Loki and Mercy, taking his brother's arm and leading him toward a bridge that from where she was standing looked like it was made of rainbows trapped in quartz. Before they could exit the Bifrost, however, four guards armed to the teeth surrounded them, yanking Mercy away and clamping more restraints around Loki's arms, feet, around his waist. One even fastened an iron collar around his throat. Mercy lunged for him, screaming his name in panic, but one of the guards held her back, circling one arm around her neck. Loki, who until someone had dared to touch her had remained cooperative, bared his teeth at the guard, snarling, "Take your hands off her!"

Thor pulled the guard off of Mercy, who ran to Loki's side. She tried to wrap her arms around him, but he took her wrists in his hands, new chains clanking as he moved. "Mercy, it's alright. Go with Thor." He gave her his bravest smile, but even that was tremulous at best. "All will be well, I swear it." He released her, then looked over at Thor. "Look after her, brother. Please."

He nodded and put a hand on Mercy's shoulder, holding her back as the guards forced Loki down the bridge toward the palace. For a moment, she struggled, but soon she stopped trying to follow him, her hands clenched into fists so tight that her fingernails dug into her skin, eight bright points of pain that kept her from losing her mind. "Where are they taking him?"

"To the dungeons," Thor answered. He too began walking down the bridge, his strides so long that Mercy almost had to jog to keep up. "They'll keep him locked up overnight, and then he'll face sentencing in the morning."

Mercy looked toward the shining palace, biting her lip until she felt the skin start to give beneath her teeth. "What...what's the usual punishment for crimes like his?"

Thor shook his head. "I can't say for certain. Under ordinary circumstances, the offender would be put to death. But do not fear," he assured her, noting her look of despair. "I doubt my mother will allow such a fate to befall him. She still considers him her son." Thor noticed the pace she had to take to keep up with him, and he slowed his steps, allowing her to adopt a more comfortable gait.

Mercy sighed, shoving her hands in her pockets, noting with a strange sort of detachment that she hadn't even brought her cell phone or her keys with her. "What do I do now?" A rueful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I didn't really plan this far ahead."

Thor smiled down at her. "I will alert the palace staff that you are here as a guest. You can explore the palace at your leisure."

"And then?"

He didn't answer right away. "Only time will tell, Mercy." Almost pityingly, Thor patted her shoulder. As they entered the palace, he beckoned over a female servant, who curtsied before him. "Gyrda will show you to your room. Please excuse me, I have business elsewhere." With a nod and smile, Thor turned on his heel, red cape billowing out behind him, and returned back down the bridge toward the Bifrost. Gyrda, a slender, elfin woman who looked over Mercy with curious eyes the color of brushed copper, dipped into a small curtsy and gestured for Mercy to follow her. 

As she was led down the vaulted corridors, Mercy allowed herself to take in her surroundings, the gilded pillars and glittering walls that rose hundreds of feet above her to elegantly sculpted ceilings, or to panes of glass that seemed to be both clear and pearlescent. The human felt very small and out of her element here in this place that radiated grandeur and antiquity, walking along floors that seemed to be made of marble streaked with veins of gold. Part of her wanted desperately to return home to her small house where everything was just the right size and familiar and exactly what she was used to. Thankfully, that part of her was very small. 

Gyrda led her to a room off one of many corridors that branched from the main hall. Mercy had to keep her jaw clenched to make sure it didn't fall open. The room was bigger than three of her house put together, complete with a desk, a bed roughly the size of her kitchen draped in exotic animal furs, a sitting area with ornately carved furniture, and an adjoining bathing suite with a bath the size of a small swimming pool. Gyrda curtsied again and left, leaving Mercy alone to explore. 

Everything in this room fascinated her. Inside a gigantic wardrobe, she found gowns ranging from silk and velvet to gauzy material that felt soft to the touch and was as light as air. When she tried one on, it was exactly her size. As it turned out, so were the rest. She found it strange, but she reminded herself that Asgard was a place of magic. Perhaps the dresses would adjust themselves to the exact size of the wearer. She chose one that was gold in color, but shimmered with hints of green in the light. 

For almost twenty minutes, she deliberated if she wanted to take a bath in the enormous bathing pool, but ultimately decided against it. Instead, she opened the terrace windows and walked out onto the expansive marble balcony, settling herself on a plushly cushioned chaise. She judged it to be about midday, but since here there were two suns, it was hard to tell. She found it rather nice that despite having two suns, the temperature was mild, like mid-spring back home. Allowing a small smile to flit across her lips, she lifted her face into the gentle breeze. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine that she was back home, relaxing on her porch, waiting for Loki to come home for the day. 

Loki...

Her insides began twisting themselves up in knots, worry sitting like a brick of lead in her stomach. Suddenly, she couldn't sit still anymore. Mercy rose to her feet and began to pace around the room, her bare feet slapping against the marble floor. Absently, she began biting on her nail, a small crease appearing between her eyes. Thor said that it wasn't likely that Loki would be put to death, but he had killed so many. He had almost succeeded taking over an entire planet. What, then, would his punishment be? Torture? Imprisonment? She remembered a story she had read that Loki had once had his lips sewn shut for lying. What would Odin do to him for this? Her stomach roiled at the thought, bile rising into the back of her throat. The faster she paced, the more worried she became, and the more worried she became, the tighter the knot in her stomach drew until-

With a lurch, Mercy sprinted for the bathing chamber, hurling herself over a bowl and vomiting into it. Her body was wracked with heaves, her hands weak and white as they held her hair back from her face. When she could finally sit back up, her face was pale and sweaty, her lips trembling. Wiping her mouth, she sighed and looked down to see that the bowl was empty, the contents vanished. More efficient than indoor plumbing, she thought, laughing hoarsely as she got to her feet. By the bathing pool, there was a basin and a ewer of water, and she poured some out, rinsing out her mouth and patting cool water onto her cheeks and forehead. For a couple of weeks now, she'd had this weird bug. She'd throw up and feel terrible for a few minutes, but after that she was fine, no more adverse effects. Loki had wanted her to see a doctor, fretting and fussing over her like a worried mother, but she had waved him away, insisting that she was fine, that she was susceptible to bugs getting passed around and promising him that if she wasn't feeling better in a few days, she would give in and go see a doctor. 

Mercy stepped out of the bathing suite, taking a deep breath as she nervously twisted a strand of hair around her finger. She couldn't stand this. She couldn't stay in this one room, no matter how beautiful it was; she would drive herself crazy. Her hand was an inch away from the ornately carved handle of the door when there was a knock from the other side of it. Startled, she leapt back. 

"Um...c-come in."

The door swung inward, and a woman entered the room dressed in a flowing gown of delicate blue silk, her soft blonde hair twisted into elegant shapes like a crown around her head. She was smiling softly, her hands folded in front of her, and she knew from Loki's description who this must be. Awkwardly, she tried to curtsy, and failed miserably.

"Queen Frigga," she mumbled.

The queen gently placed her hand on her shoulder, bidding her to rise. "We understand that you are not familiar with our customs here, my dear. You need not worry about adhering to them." Her smile was kind, and she felt a little of her awkwardness ease.

Mercy stepped back as the queen swept gracefully toward the sitting area, settling into a chair as if it were the royal throne. She followed, taking the seat opposite her, trying to sit like she hadn't been raised in a barn.

"You're probably wondering why I am here," she began, her eyes darting over her. Mercy noticed that they, although blue instead of green, were as quick and sharp as Loki's, and the thought made her smile. 

"I am curious, yes."

Frigga's hands were folded in her lap, and she noticed that she was fiddling with a ring on her left hand, nervously twirling it around her finger. It was the only outward sign of discomfort she allowed. Why would a queen be uncomfortable around her, a unimportant human?

"I wished to see the woman that changed my son's heart," she finally said. "A year ago, he would have died before allowing his brother to return him to Asgard." A tiny smile warmed her face, and Mercy couldn't help but feel at ease in her presence. "Now, he seems almost like himself again, like the boy I once knew." Frigga leaned forward and patted Mercy's hand gently. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for him."

Mercy felt a pleased blush creep over her cheeks at Frigga's words. Whatever happiness those words gave her, however, was quickly darkened by the fears she'd been consumed by all day. "Your Majesty..." she paused, the words unfamiliar on her tongue. "What's going to happen to him?"

Frigga's face fell, her brows furrowed in a look of worry Mercy knew all too well. "I cannot say. There have been calls for his death, enough that my husband is considering an execution." The queen's face paled at the dreaded word, and Mercy likewise felt the blood drain from her own face. "I have pled Loki's case, I have asked Odin to spare his life, but I do not know if he will listen."

"But...I mean, Loki's his son." She wrung her hands ceaselessly in her lap, her stomach threatening to overturn again. "Not by blood, but...he surely wouldn't kill his own son?"

Though she betrayed no tremor, no tremble of the lip or hand, Mercy saw an unfathomable sorrow in Frigga's eyes, saw her grief lying like a weight on her heart. "The Allfather cannot appear soft in front of his people. In their eyes, Loki is a murderer, a criminal. To treat him with leniency would be interpreted as weakness." Mercy felt her stomach drop sickeningly, and she pressed a hand over her mouth. Frigga's quick eyes did not miss this, and she forced herself to smile. "But we will worry about that when the time comes, my dear. For now, tell me about your life on Midgard. Thor tells me that you found Loki after he escaped."

Swallowing down her nausea, grateful for the change of subject to more pleasant thoughts, Mercy told her everything. How she had found Loki, badly wounded, outside in the storm she had been avidly watching. How Loki had proved to her that he was the god he claimed to be, had told her of his deeds in New York. She told Frigga of the remorse and anguish she had seen in his haunted eyes, of the raw pain in his voice when he spoke of his origins, of his childhood, of the night the Bifrost had been destroyed. "I couldn't help myself, he looked like a lost little boy. I did my best to comfort him, and one thing led to another..." Mercy's cheeks turned bright red, realizing belatedly that perhaps this was not something she should be discussing with her lover's mother. Frigga smiled her understanding, gesturing for Mercy to continue. "I expected him to be gone in the morning, but there he was, grinning at me and sprawling out like it was his bed instead of mine." She smiled at the memory of the instant she had felt her love returned. "And I guess from that point, it wasn't just mine anymore."

Mercy continued, telling the queen about Loki's struggle to adjust to life among mortals. Frigga was beaming with pride when Mercy told her about Loki's position at the university teaching theology. She told her of their life together, little anecdotes about Loki's attempts at posing as a human, happy to see the queen laughing. Before she knew it, both suns outside had set, exposing the pinpoints of a billion stars and the nebulous twists of color of the surrounding galaxies. Frigga sighed and glanced out at the sky, then back to Mercy, who was stifling a yawn.

"Forgive me," she said, getting to her feet. "You must be tired after your journey."

Mercy stood, shaking her head, though another yawn threatened to betray her. "No, really, I'm okay."

The queen smiled and laid a cool hand against the mortal's cheek. "Rest, Mercy. Loki will need to see you strong and healthy tomorrow." She paused, her eyes unreadable. "Know that whatever happens, I am grateful that Loki found you."

Her words made Mercy smile, even though it was half-hearted. "Thank you, your majesty."

"If you need anything, I will not be far." Frigga nodded and went to the door, pausing to add, "Sleep well, my dear." With that, she swept out of the room, leaving Mercy alone with her thoughts.

[asgardianintern]

Sunrise

So my lovely roommate @strainedrex34 has been having a bit of a hard time lately (that’s putting it mildly tbh), and one of the biggest things that makes her happy these days is one Bucky Barnes. So, I wrote this little oneshot for her. 

Stormcloud eyes blinked open, grainy with shallow, unrestful sleep and heavy as lead. Bucky rolled his head back, working out some of the kinks. They'd fallen asleep on the couch again, him sitting up and her curled against his side.

He looked down to see her still sleeping, and a small smile dimpled his scruffy cheeks. Her lips were open, her breath escaping softly and steadily between them. The sun was rising outside of her comfortable apartment, golden light creeping in through the window and caressing the line of her face before getting caught in the strands of her blonde hair. She was warm against him, solid as an anchor. His anchor.

They'd met months ago. He couldn't remember exactly how, his short term memory was spotty at best. But he could clearly remember the first time she saw his metal arm. Her hands had reached out to touch it with no hesitation, though his sensors could barely pick up her fingertips sliding over the cold vibranium. He'd been quietly surprised that she wasn't afraid, merely curious. Even when she coaxed him to tell his stories, to exhume the bones of his past, she never betrayed a single tremor of fear. Instead her faded denim eyes filled with tears, colored lips trembling. Her small, soft hands had folded around his rough ones as if the blood he carried on them meant nothing, and in silence she encouraged him to continue until all of his poison had been purged. He had thought that dredging up his sins would leave him drained and depressed, but afterwards, he'd felt strangely light.

  When he'd finished, she had squeezed his hands and gotten to her feet, ordering two shots of something that burned his throat, then she'd grabbed the lapel of his leather jacket and pulled him out of the dimly lit bar and out into the street. He'd followed her to her car, cautiously lowering himself into the passenger seat after she instructed him to get in. She'd driven in silence back to her apartment, guiding him up a set of stairs and into the comfortable one-bedroom. She'd sat him on the couch, joining him shortly after with two bottles of beer. As the bottles emptied and the hours passed, she told him of her ghosts, the past that haunted her, and Bucky was floored by the parallels. The torture. The betrayal. The systematic erasure of any remaining shreds of self until all that was left was a husk that was programmed for obedience. His heart hurt that such a sweet, genuine woman could be subjected to the same atrocities. It didn't matter of it was one man or a thousand, their scars aligned almost exactly. When at last they had both fallen silent, he kissed her, the salt of his tears mixing with the faint sweetness of her lipstick. She wouldn't let him stop, and truth be told, he wasn't sure if he could have. She was soft, welcoming, her body pressed reassuringly to his, and Bucky felt a squeeze around his heart when she took his metal hand and pressed it to her cheek, unflinching as the cool, unyielding surface touched her skin.

There wasn't time to make it to the bed the first time. Similar souls sharing similar scars refused to be kept apart. It was quick, sloppy, over too soon, but the stars in her eyes and the twine of her legs around his hips signalled that she was far from done with him. They made love many times that night. He'd lost count, honestly. 

And now, months later, when Bucky spent more nights in her comfortable full size bed than in his own too-firm queen, they faced their ghosts together. She had her moments, moments when her eyes glazed over and she forgot where she was, but he held her face like a treasure between his hands and reminded her that she was safe, that she was alright. And when his nightmares took over, when his past clawed its way out of its shallow grave, she wrapped her arms inextricably around his neck, chasing them away until the shakes died down. There were nights when she cried for no reason, nights when she was too scared to sleep, nights when she was so angry about the shit she'd been through that she lashed out, delicate hands curled into fists that smashed into the wall, the door, the hardened muscles of his chest. But she never hurt him. And on the days when he forgot who he was, on the days when a few garbled words in a newscast or a radio show could snap him into assassin mode, when he would have killed the first person to turn too swiftly in his direction, her melodic voice brought him back. The clear, sweet sound of her singing as she dressed for the day grounded him. The warmth of her hand on the back of his neck comforted him. The smell of her perfume kept him sane. It wasn't easy, but it was worth the struggle. She fought off his demons, and he fought off hers. 

Now, with her nestled under his right arm, head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder, he saw her as she was. He saw her as he wished she could see herself. Her body, all soft curves and warm skin, was folded perfectly against him, like joined pieces of a damaged puzzle. The emerging sunlight colored her face, brought out the pinkish glints of her bleached hair, shining through the soft, dark bristles on the shaved sides of her head. Bucky could run his hands through her hair all day, silken strands and tickling sides, texturally pleasing and faintly scented with floral shampoo. Her eyes fascinated him; in the daylight they reminded him of a winter sky, blue and grey and vast. In the dark, they were the color of steel, almost the same shade as his. Freckles dotted her arms and shoulders, like drips of maple syrup. Scars left from battles lost with her own personal demons were scattered down her shapely legs; whenever he found those legs draped over his shoulders, he took the time to kiss them, showering them with attention before moving on to the main event. 

Physical appearance aside, she amazed him. She was resilient, like tempered steel. Flexible, bendable, capable of withstanding great pressure without snapping or breaking. She had been through hell, and there tiny cracks in her soul from where she had pulled the pieces of herself back together, but warmth and light and love shone through, shattered and brought together, and made even more beautiful than before. She was incredibly funny, cracking jokes (often self-deprecating, to his increasing frustration) and forcing painful puns that made him roll his eyes and groan, but always made him smile. She was smart, able to balance logic with creativity. Though she didn't have much, she made the most of what she did have, making a box of dollar pasta seem like a king's feast. She was quick to show affection, snuggling into him or kissing his cheek or even simply touching his arm. She always seemed to want to be close to him, and after years of isolation, he couldn't get enough of her attention, and she craved his in equal measure. Perhaps most endearing of all, when someone she loved was threatened, frightened, worried, or even inconvenienced, she responded with the ferocious protectiveness of a lioness, shaking her mane and roaring at whatever vexed her. She was quick to offer solutions, solace, comfort in the form of alcohol and snack food. Whatever it took to make the object of her attentions smile again. She didn't realize just how happy she made those she kept close, and though they tried to tell her her worth, she wouldn't listen, brushing their words aside.

It hurt him that she couldn't see how amazing she was. That she couldn't look past the points of darkness that made up her flaws to see the light of her good heart shining beyond them. She thought of herself as damaged goods, too fucked up to be loved, too crazy to be worth anything to anyone, but he saw daily, hourly even, how much light and love she brought into his life and the lives of those she held in her heart. It was like fighting against quicksand, to get her to acknowledge her own worth, but they had time now. There was all the time in the world to convince her. And every rising sun, like the one glaring into her eyes and rousing her from sleep in his arms, was just another chance to prove to her that she could be loved. That someone could see the beauty in her scars and the light in her darkness. 

Perhaps today would be that day.

[asgardianintern]

Merry Christmas, Darling

AN: I actually wrote this last year for @particularscarf, but I forgot to post it. Oopsie. Anyway, just a little bit of Christmas fluff and feel-goodness. Enjoy, and happy holidays!

Inhaling as the wick of the pine-scented candle caught the match-flame, Joy felt a smile creep over her lips. It was Christmas Eve, and any second now, her husband was going to call. Tom was overseas now, thousands of miles and an ocean away, filming for his next cinematic release. It was their first Christmas apart since they had started seeing each other six years ago, and Joy couldn't pretend that she was entirely content with the situation. It was hard waking up in their bed alone, not hearing Tom humming aimlessly as he got ready for the day, coming home to a dark, empty house. She'd barely had the heart to decorate for Christmas.

But two nights ago, after a glass of mulled cider and with her favorite Christmas album on repeat, she pulled out the boxes and tubs full of holiday trimmings and trappings, smiling and singing along as she made their home look festive, even going out and finding a last minute Christmas tree. It was small, barely four feet high, but somehow, with a strand of multicolored lights and her ornament collection strewn about the branches, it fit. 

Now, snuggled warm in her slipper-socks and one of Tom's cardigans, she curled up on the couch, balancing her laptop on her knees, waiting to for her husband to call. He said he'd be able to call around six, which was about midnight where he was shooting. Taking a sip of her peppermint tea, Joy's lively amber eyes kept flitting to the clock at the bottom of her screen.

6:09.

Come on, Tom.

Just then, the Skype call alert started to chime, and her face broke out into a wide smile as she accepted the call, setting her tea down on the coffee table and pulling her sleeves down over her hands. She heard him before she saw him, his voice sounding a touch robotic through the internet, but still filling her with some kind of peace, like part of her missing half had come back to her.

"There you are!"

Joy smiled. "I don't think your camera's on yet, sweetie."

"Just a sec," he murmured, fiddling with something before turning on his webcam. She giggled as she saw that he was dressed in the ridiculous sweater, patterned in Christmas lights and candy canes, that he'd received as a gag gift last year. Tom was grinning like an excited little boy, his eyes sparkling with joy and love, curls that were artificially darkened for the role he was playing adorably tousled, as if he'd been running his fingers through them. "Better?"

"Much better." Joy could not stop smiling. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

"It certainly just became a lot merrier," he replied, winking at her, laughing as she laughed. They talked for a while, Joy inquiring about filming and Tom asking after her, how she was doing, how her job was going, and so on. It was safe, familiar, comfortable, but it wasn't the same without him, without being able to feel the heat of him against her side, to smell that scent that was entirely and singularly his. Her soul ached for him, even now as they spoke. Especially during this season that the two of them had always treasured. 

After almost an hour of catching up, Tom sighed and smiled. "Darling, I know we normally wait until Christmas Day to give each other gifts, but I was hoping you'd let me give you yours tonight?"

Joy laughed. "Please tell me it's an on-camera strip tease.”

He growled, "Naughty girl." Her giggle made him grin. "Not this time, but that gives me ideas for next Christmas."

"You and me both."

He tried to maintain his equilibrium, but she saw his hand clench into a fist at the thought of her taking off her clothes on camera. "What I had in mind was a bit more tame," he clarified, then reached for something off camera. When he straightened, he was holding a guitar, that excited grin back on his face. Joy laughed.

"You're going to serenade me?"

"This is only part one of your Christmas present. The rest should be delivered to you in the morning." He strummed a soft chord. "I just thought this song was appropriate for our situation."

Joy settled back into the couch, tucking her legs beneath her and clutching a throw pillow to her chest. "Alright, let's hear it."

Tom's graceful fingers curled around the neck, his fingertips resting on the frets, bowing slightly as he pressed the correct strings for the first chord.

"Christmas cards have all been sent, the Christmas rush is through. I still have one wish to make. I wish I were with you."

He looked up at her to find her face soft, her smile sweet, and her eyes shining clear with love and happiness. Smiling to himself, he continued.

"Merry Christmas, darling. We're apart, that's true. But I can dream, and in my dreams, I'm Christmasing with you."

Tom continued, smiling gently the whole time. Between sets, between filming, he'd worked on learning this song for her. Joy had told him that her mother had been a big fan of the Carpenters, that she had grown up listening to that song around the holidays, so it was doubly apt for tonight. She had taken the news that he would be away for Christmas remarkably well, insisting that she would be fine, but he had seen the light in her honey-brown eyes dim, had seen her shoulders slump slightly. He knew this was hard on her, as it was for him, and he hated that he had to do this to them. Hopefully, this would best express his longing to be with her without spoiling the Christmas spirit. 

"Merry Christmas, darling. Happy New Year too. I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve. I wish I were with you."

He finished the song and looked up to see tears sparkling in her eyes, her smile trembling. Immediately, his heart sank. 

"Ah, love, I'm sorry." Tom set the guitar down and leaned toward the computer, wishing he could reach out and stroke her tears away. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"No, no, it's fine," she assured him, her voice shaking slightly. "This is a good kind of crying." She laid a hand over her heart, her expression so full of love and adoration that it made him ache. "Thank you, that was very sweet."

"Are you sure you're alright?" His brow arched, and he leaned closer still, eyes scanning the screen.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm more than fine." Joy wiped her tears away, sniffling quietly. "I'm just happy, that's all. It's not every husband who would serenade his wife over Skype."

Tom grinned. "Only the good ones."

That coaxed a laugh from her, then she sat upright, running a hand through her hair. "You got my package, right?"

He leaned back so that she could seen the manila envelope sitting on the table in his hotel room. "It came last night."

"Good. I was worried I got the address wrong." She looked down her nose at him, trying to appear stern. "You're not going to peek, are you?"

Tom's laugh was like music. "No, I'm not. I learned my lesson from last year."

"Glad to hear it." Joy smiled, then stifled a yawn.

"Mm, looks like someone's a sleepy kitten," Tom joked before yawning himself. "What time is it there?"

"Almost seven-thirty." She yawned again. "Sorry, I've been having some trouble sleeping lately."

His brow furrowed, a small line of concern being stitched between them. "Is everything alright?"

Joy waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine, I'm sure. Nothing a shot of Nyquil can't fix." She smiled reassuringly, but there was something lurking in her eyes, like she was purposefully not telling him something. Worry gnawed in the pit of his stomach, but as she covered her mouth to stifle yet another yawn, Tom decided to let the subject rest. If she was still having trouble sleeping when he got home next week, he'd make sure she saw a doctor. 

"Alright, I'd better let you go." He smiled, though dread was still sitting heavily in his stomach. "Happy Christmas, sweetheart. I love you."

"And a very merry Christmas to you, linchpin of my life." Joy blew a kiss at the camera, then added, "Love you too. I miss you."

"I'll be home by New Years, darling. Have to be there to give my best girl a kiss." He tipped her a wink, then returned her blown kiss. "Good night."

"Night," she replied, then ended the call and closed her laptop. On the couch, her hand absently drifted to her stomach, rubbing softly just under her navel. Yes, there was something she hadn't told him, though it had been dying to burst out of her all night. She had to keep a secret though, at least until tomorrow. Everything would be explained in the package she had sent him. Turning all but the Christmas lights off, Joy retreated into their bedroom to snuggle under the covers on Tom's side, inhaling his smell and clutching a pillow as a substitute, wishing not for the first time that he was here. And like that, she drifted to sleep, and outside, a light snow began to fall.

Only a few hours later, Tom awoke to a snowless Christmas morning, smiling as he remembered Joy's package waiting for him on the table. He forced himself to shower, shave, and make a cup of coffee before sitting down to open it, grinning the entire time. Inside the manila folder, he found a letter and a photograph. As he picked the photo up, his brow furrowed and his hand began to shake. 

In the picture was his wife, holding up a pregnancy test that clearly read positive. In red marker, she had scrawled "Merry Christmas, Daddy!" in the corner. She was positively glowing with happiness, her eyes bright and clear with just the slight sheen of tears. They had been trying for months, with a couple of scares and little progress. He skimmed the letter, and in her own curly handwriting, it told him what he had already figured out.

She's pregnant.

We're going to have a baby.

Sitting at the hotel room table, Tom felt tears spring to his eyes, a smile spreading on his face. He had to call her, he had to speak with her about this, but for now, he just let himself bask in the best Christmas gift he had ever received.

[asgardianintern]

Hope in the Storm-Part 2

Part 1

"Mercy. Wake up."

Slowly, she rose out of sleep, opening her eyes to the greyish light of a cloudy morning. Loki was gently shaking her shoulder, and as his face swam into focus, her heart dropped sickeningly into her stomach. His brow was furrowed, the color drained from his face, and his mouth was pressed in a thin white line. Mercy sat up, raking her hair back out of her eyes. "Mm...what's going on?" "He's coming."

As if to punctuate that ominous statement, an apocalyptic roll of thunder boomed across the sky as lightning flashed blinding lavender-white outside. Suddenly very alert, Mercy took Loki's hand, which was cooler than normal. "Who's coming?"

"Thor." Loki glanced out the window as he said his brother's name, his eyes flat and expressionless, though something as dark as dread lurked behind the green.

Wasting no time, Mercy climbed out of bed, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt. Her stomach dropped into her feet, rolling and churning with dread, and her hands shook as she pulled a duffel bag out of the closet. "Okay. We don't have time to pack anything other than essentials, but we can buy new things when we get to a safe place." As she talked, she started throwing a change of clothes and some toiletries haphazardly into the bag. "You can change your appearance so you can blend in, and he won't be looking for me. I'll-"

"Mercy." Loki grabbed her wrist as she reached for one of his shirts to throw into the bag. "It's too late. He's too close."

Her eyes filled with tears before she could stop them. "You won't even try?" Choked by fear and creeping despair, her voice was small, childlike. Loki felt pierced through with guilt and sorrow, but he held firm.

"No." He held both of her hands in his. "I lifted the cloaking spell last night." She opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but he cut her off, squeezing her hands. "Listen to me. I've had an entire year with you, a year full of all of the love and kindness I never knew. You gave me a second chance, a home. You gave me your heart. You gave me everything, Mercy, and I have been blessed to be beloved of you." He kissed her hands, his eyes pleading with her. "But that doesn't change the past. I've committed treason, I have the blood of thousands on my hands, and no amount of love can wash it away. It's time for me to answer for my crimes."

Now her tears were flowing freely; the sight of them broke Loki's heart. "I don't understand...why now?"

Before Loki could answer her, there was a tremendous crash from the living room. They ran out, Loki magicking clothes onto his body, to find Thor standing in their house, having broken down the front door. He raised Mjolnir threateningly, and Loki stepped in front of Mercy, shielding her from whatever blow Thor was about to strike.

"A bit dramatic, don't you think?" Loki's tone was flippant, almost joking, as if the last years of anger and fighting between them had never happened. Just brothers sharing a joke. "A simple knock would have sufficed."

"I am in no mood for games, Loki," Thor ground out from between clenched teeth. "Release the girl."

Loki chuckled, but didn't move. "What makes you think she wants to be released?"

Thor advanced a couple of steps, his teeth bared. "Do not test my patience, brother. Lift your enchantment from her. Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

Before either god could act further, Mercy surprised them both by stepping out in front of Loki, her arms spread protectively. "My name is Mercy, and I'm not under any spell, enchantment, or influence of any kind." Her eyes flashed almost the same color as Loki's, the green vivid with her ferocity. "One year ago, I found Loki outside my door, badly wounded from fighting with you." Her glare sliced through the rising tension, and Thor faltered a little. "I tended to him. I gave him shelter in my home. He told me about everything, his attempted coup of Asgard, his crimes on Earth, New York, everything. I saw what no one else gave him the chance to show," she spat. "Remorse. He bitterly regretted everything he'd done. He considered himself a monster, beyond the hope of forgiveness. But he was wrong, and I proved it." She stepped back and linked her fingers through his, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze. "I love him, and he loves me. We've built a life here. I'm not going to let you tear it apart."

Thor had lowered Mjolnir and was looking between Loki and Mercy with confusion. Finally, his gaze rested on the pendant that hung around Mercy's neck; emerald and sapphire, like no other gem in the world. The craftsmanship was unmistakably Loki's, and Thor stared at his wayward brother, his eyes softening. "Is what she says true?"

Loki nodded, winding his arm around Mercy's waist. "It is. I've had time to think about my actions. All the innocent lives I took, the senseless bloodshed..." He trailed off, and she squeezed his hand again. Loki lifted their linked hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles, holding her hand to his cheek for a brief moment before addressing Thor with the hard jade of his eyes melted to brimming liquid. "I understand now why you tend to favor mortal women. Perhaps because their lives are so much shorter, their love is all the more fierce. And I have found such love here." He paused, then gritted his teeth. "But it doesn't change what I've done." 

Loki withdrew his arm from around Mercy and walked forward. "I lifted the cloaking spell on this place last night, knowing you would find me in a matter of hours. I am ready to face justice for my crimes." The corner of his mouth twitched up, but there was no humor in his eyes as he held out his hands, wrists up, fists loosely curled against his palm. The gesture was indisputable, an invitation for shackles. Thor eyed him with mistrust.

"Is this some kind of a trick?"

"No, Thor. No tricks. No illusions. I will come quietly."

"No!"

Mercy darted between the two, trying to push Loki away from Thor, but he was as immovable as a stone statue. "You can't! I won't let you!"

Loki took her wrists, trying to calm her down. "Mercy, listen to me-"

"No!" She struggled to get out of his grasp, tears cascading down her cheeks. "You can't leave me here. You can't love me like this and walk away from me. How am I supposed to live without y-you?" Her voice faltered, wavered, and broke, and she collapsed against his chest, shaking as she fought to choke back her sobs. Loki wrapped her in his arms, pressing kisses to her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, wherever he could reach. 

"Please understand, dear one. It has to be this way. I couldn't live with myself if I never accepted the punishment for my sins. I couldn't live with forcing you to be a fugitive for the rest of your life." They had had that discussion before; Mercy insisted that she didn't care, as long as they were together and safe, but Loki knew he couldn't keep her from her family and friends forever. "No matter what," he murmured, stroking her hair soothingly, "know that I have loved you more than I ever believed I could love another. You brought me out of my own darkness, you showed me the depths of my own heart. You loved me when no one else could, and even if I outlive the nine realms themselves, I would never have enough time to prove how grateful I am." He cupped her chin and pulled her up for a kiss, trying to pour every ounce of his adoration for her into the meeting of their lips. "I will always carry you in my heart, and you must carry me in yours."

Disentangling himself from her arms, Loki stepped back to Thor, who almost begrudgingly clamped the shackles around his wrists. For a moment, the Thunderer studied Loki's eyes, the line between his brows gradually smoothing out. "She has truly changed you," he muttered. A statement rather than a question. Loki nodded. 

"She has."

For the first time since entering their home, Thor smiled, even going so far as to clap a hand on Loki's shoulder. "For that I am grateful."

They started for the door, but their way was blocked by Mercy, traces of her tears still drying on her cheeks though her red-rimmed eyes were dry, her jaw set stubbornly as she braced her hands against the doorframe. "If you're taking him, you're taking me with you."

Loki shook his head, though some light had returned to his eyes. "Mercy, you have to stay here. You-"

"I don't have to do anything," she interjected, her eyes flashing with a familiar fire that stirred something like pride in Loki's heart. "I want to come with you because it's where I belong. Here, Asgard, Mars, wherever. As long as you're there, I will be too."

Thor sighed. "Your intentions are admirable, but I can't allow you along." He made to pull her away from the door, but she jerked away from his grasp, ducking under his arm and darting forward to grab the front of his armor and pull him down to her level. 

"I don't care what you can or can't allow," she hissed, anger curling her lip into a snarl. "I am coming with you, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me."

Thor looked over at Loki, who was grinning. "She can be a stubborn one," he supplied, shrugging and looking thoroughly amused. Slowly, Thor's smile grew to match his brother's. 

"That she is," he agreed. "Very well, Mercy. Please take Loki's arm." Mercy did so, holding tightly to her beloved as they walked out into the front yard. Checking to make sure Loki's bonds were secure, Thor nodded and looked up to the sky. "Heimdall, when you're ready."

Seconds passed, then a shimmering column of iridescent light descended upon them. In the seconds before this world and the next, just before their feet left the ground, Mercy felt her heart give a powerful clench out of fear of the unknown. An unknown world, unknown destination, and an unknown future. Tears stung at her eyes, and Loki gave her a reassuring squeeze, holding her tightly as they left the earth and the only life she had ever known.

[asgardianintern]

Hope In The Storm- Part 1

A/N: I wrote a story a couple of years ago called “Love In The Storm,” which can be found here. I’ve had the idea for a sequel forever, but I never got around to writing it until a couple of months ago. Once I started putting it down, though, it ended up being much longer and much more detailed than I had imagined. This is mostly just a follow up from the first story; fair warning, there be smut ahead. There will be plot in the next part, I promise.

Outside, the air was clear and cool, carrying the first chill of autumn. Mercy looked up at the sky, at each star as it sparkled indifferently down at her, and smiled as she remembered that exactly one year ago, the sky had been dark and heavy with clouds. The storm had come fast, and carried with the raindrops had come the love of her life. One year ago, Loki had stumbled his way into her home, and in a matter of hours, both of their hearts had been lost. She had woken up the morning after he had made such tender love to her, certain that he had left her life forever, only to find him still lying beside her, his arms still wrapped around her. She knew then that the love that had taken root in her heart was flowering in his, was echoed in the chambers of his own heart. She didn't recall if they had ever actually gotten out of bed that day.

But eventually, they had forced themselves to get up, Loki jumping into the shower while Mercy changed the sheets, resisting the urge to join him. Once they were both clean and dressed, they had sat curled up against each other for hours, discussing what they were going to do now. Loki's arms wrapped inextricably around her, as if afraid that she would be torn from him if he let her go for a second, as Mercy twined her legs through his. Loki was set against Mercy returning to work the next day, adamant that he would provide for her, but she laughed and kissed the tip of his nose. "Until you've adjusted to living as a human, someone's got to pay the bills. It'll be fine, sweetie."

And adjust he had. It had been a bit rocky at first, especially when she left him alone to go to work. Loki hadn't wanted to let her leave, slipping his hands around her waist and kissing that exact spot on her neck that made her weak in the knees. The nine hour shift seemed to crawl by, the meshed coil of anticipation, anxiety, and arousal sitting like a weight in her stomach. When she finally returned home, Mercy barely had time to get through the door before Loki was there, pressing her against it as he kissed the breath from her lungs, his hands running over every inch of her. 

"Missed you," he muttered as his hands ran up inside her shirt, squeezing her breasts as his hips pinned hers against the door, his hardness unmistakable through the layers of cotton and denim. He kissed her thoroughly, hungrily, as if her lips held all the nourishment he could ever need. Her hands cradled his face like he would break if he slipped from her fingers, and  before she had time to think, Loki had borne her down to the floor, worked her jeans and her underwear off her body, and thrust inside with a hungry growl of her name. He had been quick and greedy, fingers rubbing harshly at her clit as he kissed her throat, bringing her to a rapid, staggering orgasm, his own following soon after. They had collapsed on the cool laminate of the entryway floor, panting and starry-eyed, her hands still clutching fistfuls of his shirt. 

Eventually, Loki had learned to adjust to his life as a human, even procuring a job at a local college. With a forged Ph.D, he became a visiting theology professor, and it was no surprise to Mercy that the majority of his students were young, simpering females. Loki assured her constantly that he had no interest in them whatsoever, found their brazenness irritating, but he had no need to. She knew how wholly he was devoted her, saw it in the glances he gave her when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Mercy could taste it in the kisses he pressed to her lips without prelude or warning, simply because he needed to be reassured of her warmth. She had never felt so completely loved in her entire life; every moment they were together, it wrapped around the two of them like strands of ivy, ensnaring them further. Each day, she woke up grateful for the warmth and weight of his arms around her waist, and she would turn and kiss him awake, just so she could tell him how deep her love ran. 

Loki still had nightmares sometimes, dark dreams from which he woke up screaming, his entire body trembling. Mercy would wrap her arms around him, holding his head against her neck as his tears ran down her skin, tenderly stroking his hair, his back, his shoulders that quaked with his sobs. He refused to tell her of his dreams, fearing that his nightmares would become hers. He rarely spoke of his past at all, and Mercy rarely asked. They lived entirely in the present, and entirely within each other. 

And now a year had passed. A year of trial and error, a year of adjustments and compromises, a year of discovery and wonder. She was surprised to find just how few limits his magic had; he could vanish solid objects (including her clothing, she was annoyed to find out), he could instantly transport them anywhere he wished, he could make things appear out of thin air. He could plant visions in her head, usually of lewd things he wished to do to her, but also of oceans, wide night skies spangled with stars, vast forests. Things he knew she liked, things he knew would calm her if she were upset or stressed. They learned the hard way that Loki couldn't use electronics; his magic shorted them out. Mercy had to go through several phones and a laptop before that revelation was made, and from then on he was forbidden to be near her electronics. Loki had found out more about her past; the farm she had grown up on, the constant bullying in school, the death of her father when she was a teenager, the emotional manipulation she'd been put through time and time again by those she considered friends. He had been angry when she told him this, but she had soothed him, stroking his hair, assuring him that it was nothing to be upset about. It was all in the past, she had forgiven those who had wronged her, and she implored him to do the same. 

An entire year. Mercy could hardly believe it.

Behind her, the wooden floor of the porch creaked. She smiled as Loki crouched down behind her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "My love, it's freezing out here. You'll catch your death."

"You won't get rid of me that easy," she giggled, laying her hands over his and giving them a little squeeze. After a beat of silence, she sighed.

"You remember what tonight is, don't you?"

She felt him nod. "An entire year," he breathed. "So much has changed."

"Mm," she agreed. They had stayed in the same house; they had no need of more space, since they shared a bed, and Loki had already cast a cloaking spell around the place. But now there was warmth there, and love and affection. Everything they had been denied before, all contained within four walls. Even they had changed. Loki could still be short-tempered and spoiled, and sometimes downright mean, but his hard edges had softened, and he knew mostly when he had irritated or upset her. Mercy was more open and more trusting than she had ever been in her entire life; the irony that her confidant was the god of lies and deceit was not lost on her.

  "I'd like to give you something. An anniversary present," he crooned, his lips skimming her ear and his hand sliding down to curve into her waist. Mercy giggled.

"What, right here on the porch? Aren't you worried about the neighbors? I don't think Mrs. Akerman ever recovered from that time we forgot to close the bedroom blinds."

Loki's laugh was a comforting rumble. "No, sweetest. Not this time, though I find your sense of depravity delicious." Briefly, his tongue darted out to press against that spot behind her ear that made her shiver. "This gift is a little more suitable for the out of doors."

He opened his other hand, and in it was nestled a beautiful pendant looped on a delicate gold chain. The stone itself was half blue, half green, surrounded by tiny chips of diamond and set in intricate loops of gold. 

"An emerald and a sapphire, fused together," he explained and she gaped at the exquisite piece of jewelry. "As our lives are now fused."

Emerald for him. Sapphire for her. Two gems that became one. Tears blurred her vision, and her heart swelled with love until it pressed against her ribs.

"Loki...thank you," she choked out, pressing a hand to her mouth. Loki picked up the chain as Mercy lifted her hair, goosebumps rippling down her arms as his fingers brushed the back of her neck, fastening the tiny clasp and bestowing a kiss to the nape of her neck. "I...I didn't get you anything."

"You are enough," he whispered, holding her close and pressing his lips to her temple. "You are more than I deserve."

She turned in his arms and brought him close for a kiss, caressing his cheeks as she did so. When they broke apart, she pressed her forehead to his, staring into those deep green eyes she had been smitten by.

"I love you."

He held her hand to his chest, encouraging her to feel his heart thrumming beneath it. "As I love you, my Mercy."

They remained locked in that tender embrace for moments that seemed to stretch to fill years, breathing in tandem, before Mercy's lips curled in a playful smirk.

"Is this your way of bribing me to have sex with you?"

Loki closed his eyes as he laughed, holding her closer and kissing her as she began to laugh too. With a playful purr, he eased her onto her back on the floor of the porch, sweeping a few dead leaves aside so they wouldn't get caught in her hair. "Did it work," he rasped, nuzzling into her neck.

Mercy sighed, pretending to think it over. "I don't know..."

Loki growled against her throat, nipping gently at the spot just below her ear. Mercy giggled and pushed against his chest, rolling out from under him and slipping into the house, the sway of her hips enticing him to follow her. Her heart racing with excitement in her chest, heat already gathering between her legs, she entered their bedroom, stripping herself naked in record time and turning just as Loki entered the room. His eyes blazed across her bare skin, as tactile as a caress, as she stood there hipshot, her hands tucked behind her back to thrust her breasts forward. The sight of her standing there, naked except for the necklace he'd given her, the fused gems nestled between her breasts, made him harden almost instantly. He made to advance, to embrace her, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"Go lie down," she purred, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a smirk. Loki's grin was almost predatory as he did as instructed, shedding the soft black pajama bottoms he had worn to bed and lying, sprawled and naked, on their bed. This time, it was her eyes appraising him, her smirk widening as his cock twitched beneath her gaze. Exaggerating the movement of her hips, she crawled onto the end of the bed, the same bed he had first made love to her on. Straddling his thighs, she reached down and grasped him, giving his length a slow stroke. Loki's eyes rolled back in his head, a low groan escaping from his lips. 

Her hand moved up and down on him, her strokes deliberate and paced, her eyes devouring him as he moaned, his hands twitching at his sides before one wrapped around her wrist, urging her to go faster. 

"Darling, please-"

She reached out and pressed her finger to his lips. "Shh," she soothed, her other hand releasing him and sliding up his chest. "Relax. Let me please you."

"Mercy," he started, but she pressed her fingers against his mouth more insistently.

"This night is for you. You've given me so much; a home, a life full of love. You've made me happier than I ever dreamed I could be." A slight sting at the back of her eyes signaled an oncoming rush of tears, but she held them back, wanting nothing to ruin this moment. "I can't do magic, I'm not super strong, and I'm not even that great of a human being." Loki's eyes flashed, but he remained silent. "But I can give you this." She scooted further up on his body, until his hardness was trapped between her slick folds and his stomach. She undulated her hips atop him, her hands braced on his chest, watching his eyes grow hooded and dark with lust. "You can have my body." She took one of his hands and pressed it to her left breast, where underneath her heart was hammering furiously. "You already have my heart and my soul." Smiling, she leaned down to kiss him, sliding him inside her as she did so. "They're nothing without you anyway."

Loki wordlessly returned her kiss, one hand cradling the back of her head as the other gently kneaded her breast. Their hips began rolling in a slow, languid rhythm, neither in any sort of hurry for this to be over. Love flowed between them as easily as blood through their veins. No words were spoken, no sounds aside from panting and soft moans. Everything that needed to be said passed between them through touches and kisses and deep, soulful stares. They needed nothing else. Just this. Each other. Finally, their bodies tensed, Mercy's hair tickling his thighs as she threw her head back, their hands linked as they came, whispering each other's names. 

Mercy laid down, trembling and panting, her eyes half-lidded and full of stars. Loki held her face between his hands like he was handling a priceless treasure and kissed her like he was drinking from her soul. Wrapped in each other's arms, they fell into a peaceful sleep, their love stronger than ever.

[asgardianintern]

Real Magic

A/N: I started writing this a long time ago for a confession on NLC about imagining Loki as a ringmaster in a circus. I don’t know where that confession is, but it stuck with me. Enjoy this pointless smut.

The gravel of the midway crunched under my sneakers as I trudged through the traveling carnival, my hands shoved deep in my pockets as the wind whipped my hair around my face. I had come with a couple of friends for the afternoon, but after a while-as predicted-they ran off. I couldn't complain too much; Becca and Stephanie couldn't get enough of the fast, creaking carnival rides which always made me nauseous and looked on the verge of collapse, while I much preferred the shows and exhibits. Rather than drag me along, they had left me to my own devices. 

It had been over half an hour, and I'd watched the clowns and the jugglers that wandered up and down the midway. I'd had a funnel cake I didn't particularly want. And now, I was getting bored, and my friends were nowhere in sight. So I strolled between the booths of rigged games promising colorful prizes, past the loud shouts of the carnival barkers, dodging hyper-active, sugared up kids and their harried-looking parents. Finally, toward the end of the midway, I caught sight of a tent I hadn't seen before. It was set back from the rest, the canvas striped with green and the opening flapping in the wind. I stopped dead and stared; there were two things that caught my eye. The first was a large sign stuck in the ground, painted with gold letters that read "MAGIC SHOW" in elegant script. 

The second was the man standing beside it.

He was tall, wearing the traditional getup of a circus ringmaster. However, instead of a flashy red, he wore a green coat embroidered with shining gold thread. The tails of his coat emphasized the impressive length of his legs, clothed in tight black trousers and ending in formidable black boots. He wore a lot of black, it seemed-his trousers, his boots, his gloves, even his feathery, shoulder-length hair. But his coat and his silky top hat both matched the green of his tent. Overall, he presented a mysterious, odd, and vaguely ominous figure.

I didn't realize I was walking toward his tent until I felt grass beneath my feet; something about it him was drawing me in. Most of his face was obscured by the brim of his hat, but I could see pale, almost cruel lips curve and stretch into a secretive smirk. There was the gleam of white, faintly pointed teeth, and I gulped. As I came closer, he swept into a grandiose bow, one gloved hand gesturing toward the opening of the tent. He spoke, his voice low and rich, not needing to shout to be heard.

"Step inside, my dear. Witness a show so amazing, so astounding, so incredible...it will make you believe in magic."

I caught my breath for a split second, before the snarky side of me kicked in and I replied, "And what if I already do?"

That grin widened into an expression of pure, sinister glee; it was a look that chilled my blood and sent a shiver down my spine. "Then I shall ensure that you never doubt it as long as you live."

Unable to respond, driven by gnawing curiosity, I nodded mutely and entered the tent. There were two rows of wooden benches set up eight deep, and I took a seat in the front row, looking around expectantly. There didn't seem to be much in the way of props on the makeshift stage; a stool, a length of braided rope, and a large folded cloth in a deep shade of green-what else? The tent was mostly empty-aside from me, there were only a couple of teenagers dressed in black, huddled together in the back and whispering to each other. Slowly, more people filtered in, but no more than half the seats were full. As set back from the midway as this tent was, I couldn't say I was surprised. 

Fifteen minutes after I walked in, the light in the tent darkened drastically as the flap closed. The subtle murmur of conversation died down to a hushed silence, as if everyone were holding their breath. Then, two elegantly sculpted candelabras flared to life on either side of the stage, though I was sure they hadn't been there before. In the center stood the man from outside, a muted version of that impish grin on his face. I could see his eyes now, and I wasn't in the least bit surprised to see they were green. They caught the candlelight like emeralds, crystalline and cold and just a little bit ominous.

"Ladies and gentlemen, madames and monsieurs, I welcome you." His gaze flickered briefly down at me, and his grin widened just the smallest bit to show a flash of teeth. He swept the hat from his head as he lowered into another bow. "And now, I invite you to brace yourselves for a show unlike anything you have ever witnessed before. Prepare yourselves...for real magic."

At first, his tricks seemed pretty standard. Conjuring a dove from his hat, then transforming it into a handful of flowers; breaking a wineglass then, after an incantation, revealing it whole and undamaged again. Impressive, but nothing I hadn't seen before. But as the act progressed, it became more and more difficult to convince myself that these were just illusions. In a tent with no rafters to support a rig of wires, he still appeared to float in midair, walking from one end of the stage to the other while hovering at least three feet above it. Holding a flickering, smoking orange flame in his left hand that should have caught the rest of him on fire, but somehow stayed confined to his palm. At one point, I realized that I was leaning forward, my mouth open slightly and my eyes the size of dinner plates. I was in awe.

Finally, we reached the last trick of his act. Smirking, he purred, "Now, I would like to ask for a volunteer from the audience."

Nearly everyone raised their hands, myself included, though it was a bit hesitant. Almost immediately, his gaze dropped to me, and his grin curled even wider. "Ah, how about you, young lady?"

Anticipation curled warmly in my stomach as he held out his hand to me, pulling me up onto the stage with him. I felt terribly exposed out there, with multiple pairs of eyes glued to me. Once we reached center stage, he stopped and asked, "What is your name, dear?"

For just the barest instant, my eyes met his, and it was like a shock of electricity being passed through me. I barely was able to raise my voice above a whisper. "A-Aria."

"I'm sorry?" He stepped closer, leaning down and inclining his ear toward me. "I didn't quite catch that."

"Aria," I said, more loudly. Goosebumps were pricking up and down my arms from how close he was, and I stared resolutely out at the edge of the stage, determined that I would not make eye contact with him again.

"Aria," he repeated. "Thank you for volunteering, my dear." I saw him move out of the corner of my eye, and then his voice was right beside my ear, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up as I felt him behind me. "For this trick, I'm going to need your absolute trust." I forgot that there were people watching us as his voice lowered even further, his breath tickling against my ear and the side of my neck. "Can you do that?"

Against my better judgement, spurred on by the mingled excitement, adrenaline, and fear surging in me, I nodded. "Yes."

"Good," he murmured. Straightening, he laid his hand on my shoulder and addressed the audience. "Before your very eyes, I am going to make this girl vanish. No tricks. No illusions. Just...magic."

At this, I felt his hand-his ungloved hand, when did that happen?-brush across the back of my neck, his fingers stroking a few strands of hair that had escaped from my ponytail. I barely contained a gasp, and by now I was starting to tremble. He leaned down again and muttered, "Aria, I want you to close your eyes, take a deep breath, and relax."

I did so, trying to slow my heartbeat along with my breath. It was easier when I couldn't see him. Then, I heard him begin some sort of chant; whether it was in a real language or he was making it up, I had a feeling it was just for the theatric effect. Gradually, I felt a strange rippling sensation against my skin, like silk in the wind. I tried to stay relaxed, but my heart was beating steadily faster and faster, wondering if what I was feeling was all in my head...or if something was actually happening.

His voice grew distant, as he were standing at the end of a long corridor, and my brows furrowed. Somehow, beneath the chanting, I heard something. A whisper. 

Keep your eyes closed.

I did so, my hands clenching into fists. Now, I was getting a little scared, wondering what he was doing, when this little trick of his was going to end. Finally, the chanting stopped, and silence fell. Absolute silence. None of the muted sounds of the midway, no traffic noises. Nothing. Except another whisper, not spoken under another voice but hissed directly into my ear.

"Open your eyes, Aria."

I did.

My heart all but stopped.

I was no longer in the dimly lit tent, no longer standing on the stage with two dozen pairs of eyes glued to me. Now I was rooted to the spot inside what looked like a trailer of some sort. It was small, with thick books bound in leather strewn across the one table, a desk in the corner, even stacked on the counter around a tiny sink. Beneath a shuttered window was a bed made with rumpled deep green sheets, pillows piled at the head. My eyes felt as wide as saucers, my chest heaving as I tried not to hyperventilate out of panic. That man, the magician, he must have brought me here somehow. I had heard him...but where was he now?

A soft, dark laugh answered my question, and I jumped, whirling around to face him and almost tripping over my own feet in the process. There he was, still dressed in green and black, that same devilish smirk on his lips. His eyes seemed to drink me in, sipped at my panic and confusion and fear, and his grin widened as he savored it. 

"Wh-Where am I? What's h-happening?" I was shaking like a leaf, barely able to form linear thoughts past the rising terror.

"I told you, little one." Every single tooth was on display as he took two leisurely steps in my direction, a wolf staring down at a snared rabbit. "Magic." He swept the hat from his head, vanishing it into thin air for emphasis. "As for where you are..." His smirk dropped a fraction as his eyes broke away from me to dart around the small space. "You're in what passes for my chambers." A slight wrinkle to his nose betrayed his distaste. "Hardly fit for peasants," he muttered before his eyes found me again, his smirk returning to its former hitch. "Though your presence improves the space greatly."

One more step, and he was towering over me, keeping me cornered against the wall. I tried to meet his stare despite my fear, but my gaze couldn't seem to make it any higher than his lips, still cruelly twisted. "Who are you?"

He laughed at that, green eyes narrowed. "Oh, my pet, don't you know?" The tailcoat melted away to reveal strange leather armor, a glittering pair of golden horns appearing atop his head. I gasped, hearing in the echo of my own shock the bleating of car horns, hundreds of screaming people, a voice commanding trembling crowds to kneel before him. I remembered that smirk, remembered those depthless green eyes filled with conquest, and suddenly even my bones went cold.

"Loki."

"Clever girl," he purred, sliding a finger beneath my chin. His ringmaster attire reappeared, his leather and helmet only an illusion to remind me of his authority, of his power. I would have given anything to be able to flinch away, to have the strength to run, but even if my legs were responding to my brain's signal to haul ass out of there, I would never have reached the door. If Loki went to the trouble of bringing me here, he wasn't going to let me leave so easily.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"So many questions," he sighed, dragging his finger slowly down my neck, tracing the path of the vein that pulsed just beneath the skin. "I saw how enraptured you were with my performance, my dear. How my parlor tricks had completely captured your attention." Loki smirked as those long, elegant fingers curled in the ends of my ponytail, twisting my hair around his knuckles. "So I decided I wanted to capture you in a completely different way." 

My heart stuttered in my chest as he came closer yet, actually pressing himself against me. A tingle went through me as the buttons on his coat brushed my breasts, and I hoped to God my bra could cover up how my nipples suddenly went hard. "Well, you've got me." I stared at his chest, noting just how perfectly the high collar accentuated the somehow delicate smoothness of his throat, the pale skin striking against the deep green. "What do you want with me?"

His chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest, caught somewhere between laughter and purring. "Oh sweetling, I think you know." Those green eyes bounced down to my breasts, also noting the flush that was rising on my neck. 

Crap. He knows.

It wasn't that I wanted to be attracted to him-God knew that he scared the hell out of me. But everything about him just pushed all the right buttons; the lean, streamlined stance, taut muscle, long limbs, dark hair, fair skin, and those green, green eyes. Not to mention the dominance that radiated from his every pore, saturating the air and igniting that massive, hidden sub complex. The breath left my lungs as he snaked an arm around my waist, dragging me against him, the long lines of his body pressed to the curves of mine.

"I brought you here because you want to be shown magic. You yearn for someone to show you things you've never experienced. And if I'm not mistaken," he crooned, "you've yet to experience the very base magic of physical passion."

A shudder rippled through me at his words, my knees wobbling as the breath was stolen from me. Yes, I was still afraid of him-he could kill me with his bare hands in at least a hundred ways. But something about the way his fingertips eased so slowly beneath the hem of my shirt to trace the waistband of my shorts made me believe that despite his power, he wouldn't harm me. If that was his intention, he would have done it by now. As his long fingers tugged the band from my hair, freeing the loose, windblown waves, I swallowed hard. "Why me?" 

"Hm?" His inquisitive hum vibrated against the side of my neck, his lips warm though they were just the barest brush.

"You could have chosen anyone. Why did you choose me?"

His laugh was short, more breath than sound as he skimmed the pads of his fingers in slow, provocative circles along my side. "You humans. You believe nothing if you cannot see it, if you cannot explain it. Your kind has faith in nothing; humanity holds little to be sacred. But you," he breathed, shoving his hand under my shirt and up my back while his other hand dropped to my hip, pressing me tighter to him, "you are different. I can see it in your eyes, like transparent glass instead of mirrors, clear and honest. Your belief sets you apart."

And apparently, that was all the explanation he thought I needed. He seized my chin and pressed his lips to mine, the kiss firm without being forceful. I had to admit, it felt fantastic. I barely hesitated before wrapping my arms around his neck, returning his kiss. Loki was right; beyond a few sloppy, drunken kisses and the occasional unwelcome hand on my breast, I knew nothing of physical intimacy. Oh sure, I brought myself to climax all the time, but to share that secret, vulnerable part with another was a foreign territory for me. True, these were not the ideal circumstances in which to lose my virginity, and I felt a brief pang of sadness that I had not had the chance to fall in love first. But I certainly was not complaining as his hands pushed my T-shirt up to just under my breasts, fingers tracing the wire of my bra. I bit at my lip, trying in vain to stifle a moan. Loki heard this and flicked his eyes up to mine, grinning that devil's smile.

"Moaning already? I've barely touched you." 

I opened my mouth to respond, but my reply was stopped dead when my T-shirt and bra were suddenly gone. Vanished, like his top hat. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my breasts, only to find myself pressed against his desk, strong hands wrapped around my wrists and pulling my hands down by my sides. His eyes darkened as his lips parted, and the sight of his bared teeth sent a pleasurable little clench through my stomach. Loki's hips jutted forward, pinning me between his body and the desk, and gathered my hands behind my back. I was trapped and at his mercy, and as he slowly began to kiss his way down my throat and across my heaving chest, I knew that even if I could get free, I wouldn't want to.

I closed my eyes as his mouth (oh god yes his mouth) pressed to the tops of my breasts, each kiss sending a warm tingle along each nerve ending. I could feel his breath ghosting across an almost painfully hard nipple, and when I expected the touch of his lips again, I heard a quiet command instead.

"Look at me."

Tentative still, I opened my eyes, and my breath caught as his gaze snared mine, pinning my attention to him as well as my body. Satisfied with what he saw in my eyes, he smirked and let that famed tongue drag across my nipple. I gave a tiny jolt in his arms at the sensation, so soft and wet and hot but growing cool as he blew across the now-damp flesh. I moaned again, louder, still unable to look away as he repeated the action again and again. My hands, still trapped in his, clenched into fists as I tried not to squirm, goosebumps racing up and down my arms and legs as pleasure pooled in my lower stomach. I was amazed at how gentle his kisses were as he switched to the previously neglected breast, his eyes never leaving mine. I could feel the strength to snap bone in his grasp, but he held my wrists so tenderly that they didn't even bruise. Maybe it was because broken toys are no fun to play with, but I wanted to believe that it was because, in some small way, he cared whether or not he hurt me. 

Soon-too soon, it seemed-Loki lifted his mouth from me, straightening as he towered above me again. Still my stare could not break, and I saw something feral rise behind the green. Abruptly, the movement so quick that I startled, he swept the books from his desk, the volumes falling carelessly to the floor. Just as quickly, Loki lifted me onto the now bare surface, his hands on my knees to keep my legs spread. He laughed, a low, silky rumble that sent flames licking through my bloodstream. "Tell me, pet, how often do you touch yourself?" Running his tongue suggestively over his lips, he slid a hand between my legs, cupping me through my denim shorts. I clenched my jaw, hesitating to answer, and he grabbed my chin with his other hand. "Let's have the truth, now; if you lie, I shall know."

I didn't think it was possible for more blood to rush to my face, but somehow my cheeks became even redder. "A-About twice a day."

"Hm." He arched an eyebrow approvingly, his fingertips making small circles just below my clit. Oh God, I wished he would just shove his hand down my pants and touch me instead of teasing. "And what goes on in that pretty little head of yours while you're pleasuring yourself? What are your fantasies?"

My throat went dry, and I had to swallow hard before I could reply. "Ah...it v-varies..." Now his fingers were rubbing slowly up and down, from my clit to my opening and back up, just the barest bit of pressure but the sensation of something moving down there was driving me crazy. "Mostly, I...um...i-imagine someone g-going down on me." My reply dropped to a whisper, too embarrassed to speak my longing out loud, but Loki heard me nonetheless.

"I suspected as much," he chuckled. "You could hardly tear your eyes away from my mouth while I was onstage." His hand began to work at undoing the button on my shorts as he nudged my hair aside so his lips could reach my ear. "Were you thinking about what it would feel like if I used my mouth on you? If I slid my tongue inside you as far as it would reach? If I licked your clit until you were writhing and panting my name?" I truthfully hadn't been, but I definitely was now as his hand slipped beneath the denim, fingertips skating over the damp cotton of my panties. "But this is only a small part of what you crave, isn't it?" His tongue pressed flatly to that sensitive patch just behind my ear as his fingers rubbed against me in a quick little flutter, urging a cry from me. "You yearn to surrender, to submit. You long to entrust your pleasure to someone fit to grant it to you. You ache to be praised, to please."

I nodded, though he already knew he was right. By now, my hips were undulating against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more contact. More of him. He had me melting in the palm of his hand-quite literally-and I could see the power he felt from it crackling in his eyes, like arcs of some primal electricity. His fingers pushed my panties aside, stroking my lips with just the lightest touch, down and back up, driving me insane. "Oh God, Loki," I panted, trying to lift my hips into his hand. "Please, God, please."

In another instantaneous movement, my shorts were gone, my panties gone, and I was forced back further onto the desk, pushed onto my back. Loki had one hand in my hair, the other on my hips, holding them still. "There will be a time for begging, pet. But not yet." He smirked and slid a fingertip down my cheek, tracing a path down my neck and between my breasts. I closed my eyes as that finger traveled further, circling my navel. I expected it to continue further, hoped and prayed for that touch where I needed it most, but just before he reached my hips, he lifted his hand. Eyes gleaming, he stepped between my legs, arms braced on the desk on either side of me, and lowered his head to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss between my breasts. Loki laid a trail of similar kisses down my body, each touch lingering, the warmth of his lips and the press of his tongue to my skin making me shiver all over. 

When he finally reached my hips, I was all but writhing on the desk, desperate for some relief of the throbbing ache at my center. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked down as Loki knelt between my legs, the green of his eyes somehow more vivid as he touched his lips to the crease of my thigh. So close, so close to where I needed him most, and I whimpered with frustration. That noise seemed to be the signal he was waiting for, and before I could even draw another breath, he plunged his tongue between my folds. I screamed, my back bowing, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto as he began licking me senseless. One hand wrapped around a desk leg, and the other slid into his hair as he ground the flat of his tongue in circles against my clit. Mingled curses and inarticulate shrieks of pleasure were torn from me as he pushed his tongue inside me, reaching deeper than I thought physically possible, one finger massaging my clit in time with the flickering of his tongue. My body was winding toward release, every sinew drawn tight as an archer's bow, every nerve alight and screaming. Then he withdrew his mouth, licking his lips, looking up at me with eyes almost black with lust. 

"Now, pet," he growled, that finger moving in torturous circles around my clit, "beg for your release."

I fought to get my breathing back under control, tried to not sound as desperate as I felt. "Please, Loki...please let me come."

He smirked, and his finger stilled. "I'm not convinced, little one."

It was my turn to growl, tears of frustration spilling from the corners of my eyes. "God, please, I'll do anything, just let me come. Loki, please, I need it, please!" My voice rose in pitch, breaking and trembling. I cringed inwardly at how pitiful I sounded, but it seemed to do the trick. Loki's lips split into a wide grin, and he laughed that low, rumbling chuckle that was the very definition of sinister.

"Good girl," he whispered before diving back into my center with renewed vigor, tongue swirling against my clit as he slid a finger inside of me. My hand fisted in his hair, my hips rising from the surface of the desk as I hurtled closer and closer to the brink of release. He brought me to the edge again, but this time, he did not stop, instead crooking his finger to touch something inside of me that sent me flying into my orgasm. I screamed and screamed, my throat torn raw from the repeated syllables of his name. I was sure the entire carnival had heard me as I finally began coasting down, my body collapsing on the desk as Loki got to his feet again. I was panting, boneless and twitching as he stared down at me; in my long and storied career of getting myself off, I had never, ever come that hard. His lips curved into a smile as he reached down to sweep a disheveled curl off of my forehead before leaning in to kiss me, placing his hand over my heart. I could taste myself on his lips, and I sighed as I felt another tug of arousal in my stomach. For several moments, he just kissed me, giving me time to recover, for my breath to slow and for my heart to calm beneath his hand. I couldn't say that I minded; in addition to all his other talents, he was an absolutely glorious kisser. For lack of a better word, he was being rather sweet. 

Eventually, I returned to some semblance of normalcy, and he broke away to let me pull myself into a sitting position, stretching stiff muscles with a contented sigh. His grin slight, but still present, he held out a hand to help me off the desk. My legs still had the approximate strength of overcooked spaghetti, but when my knees wobbled, he steadied me. His hand curved in the dip of my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. "Go lie down," he murmured softly, his voice warm against my ear. Nodding, I slowly walked toward his bed, his hand on the small of my back ready to catch me if my legs gave out again. As much as I was looking forward to what I knew was coming next, it wasn't without a rather large bit of apprehension. There was still so much I didn't know about him, about the act itself. I was unsure of myself, unsure if I trusted him, the god of mischief and deceit. He'd taken no steps to harm me, had been surprisingly gentle with me so far, but would that continue once I lay helpless beneath him? I was trembling still as I lowered myself onto his cool, slick sheets, but now it was no small amount of fear that caused my limbs to shake. 

I rolled onto my back, thighs pressed together, unsure of where to put my hands or where to look, when I heard him growl out, "Look at me."

Almost instantly, as if magnetized, my eyes were drawn to his. Our separate gazes were like flint and steel, throwing sparks between them as he crawled over me, his limbs caging me in. I was thoroughly trapped, pinned by more than his body, powerless beneath the smoldering intensity of his gaze. Suddenly, with a thrilling drop in my lower stomach, I noticed that he was naked now as well, his skin smooth and two shades paler than mine. Taut muscle rolled and flexed across every streamlined, lethal inch of him. 

dear god help me

My eyes finally slipped down that smooth, engorged part of him, and as I drank of the sight of him, he dropped his hips and pressed his groin to mine, his eyes slipping shut as he groaned. I couldn't help but writhe beneath him as he rutted against me, his hardness sliding through my folds, growing slick with my arousal. His hands cupped my breasts, kneading restlessly, and I could feel that his hands were shaking slightly. Pride flared briefly in me; I had done that to him. Plain, underwhelming, human little me had made a god tremble. 

Riding that wave of confidence, I spread my thighs as wide as they would go and raised my arms above my head, arching my back to push my breasts up into his hands, and breathed his name, turning the last syllable into a moan. I wanted him to take me, I wanted to feel him deep inside of me. All of my fears were gone, my doubts shattered as he grasped himself, guiding the blunt head to my entrance. Slowly, so agonizingly slowly, he slid inside, stretching me and filling me. I closed my eyes, moaning deeply as I wrapped my arms around his neck, urging him deeper and deeper. When he was fully seated, he paused to look down at me with fire in his eyes, his brow furrowed slightly, and I took that time to wrap my legs around his waist and rock up against him. 

"Please," I whispered. "You can move."

The tension drained from his face. His eyes hooded and hazy, teeth bared, he began to rock his hips, sliding out to the tip and then pushing back in. He went slow at first, testing my body's untried resistance, seeking out the spots that made me gasp and clutch at his back. The pleasure was like nothing else, the sensation of being filled, of his remarkable hardness moving inside of me. But it wasn't enough.

"Fuck," I moaned, raking my nails down his back, my heels digging into the small of his back. "Loki..."

"Yes, pet?" he breathed, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to my throat. 

"I need...fuck, please..."

"Tell me what you need." His voice was raspy, hoarse from grunting and moaning.

"Faster," I finally spat out. "Go faster."

His grin was nothing short of sinister as he sat back on his heels, withdrawing completely from me. I whined at the loss, but his large hands grabbed my hips and pulled me down to him, my backside resting on his thighs as he pulled my legs up over his shoulders. With one hard snap of his hips, he was inside me again, and this time the pace was furious. I clawed at the sheets, grasping fistfuls of them in my hands as I shrieked my delight. Every coherent thought was erased from my mind as Loki's arms tightened around my thighs, his lips leaving little kisses along my calves. Soon, my body tightened, every muscle pulled taut and thrumming like harp strings as my climax continued to build. If Loki felt this, he didn't show it; his pace never changed even as I let out a scream of ecstasy, my toes curling as my orgasm ripped white-hot through me.

As the pleasure subsided and I collapsed back onto the sweat-dampened sheets, panting and twitching, Loki growled and pulled out of me, grasping me around the waist and turning me onto my stomach. Behind me, he pulled my legs apart, my knees resting by the opposing edges of the mattress, and hoisted my hips in the air, leaving me entirely presented to him. With a purr, he leaned down and ran his tongue over my sopping folds, causing me to jerk and mewl when the tip of his tongue flicked over my over-sensitive clit. That one taste was enough to satisfy him, my juices mixed with his own unique flavor, and he pushed back into me, holding my hips to guide me back against him. 

It left me stunned how quickly my body responded to him, how fast the pleasure began to build again. I pressed my cheek into one of his pillows, my hands grasping the headboard to steady myself as he pounded into me. Soon, too soon, I was back on the edge of completion, and Loki would not grant it to me so easily this time. He grasped a fistful of my disheveled hair and yanked me up into a sitting position, ignoring my squeal that was more surprise than actual pain. My thighs were draped over his, one of his arms banded securely around my waist as the other hand twisted deeper still in my hair, holding my head back against his shoulder so he could kiss me. This time, he slowed the pace, rolling his hips languidly, letting the sensation simmer. I concentrated on catching my breath, moaning his name as I swirled my hips around his length. Loki groaned, his mouth pressing hot, restless kisses against the nape of my neck, my throat, my shoulders. Grinning to myself, I squeezed my muscles around him, pushing my bottom firmly down, and was rewarded with a guttural sound and a curse.

"Do that again," he growled.

I did so, and I felt the scrape of his teeth against my ear as he continued to make those deep, primal sounds of lust, the vibrations of them rumbling through his chest against my back. It wasn't long before he couldn't stand my teasing anymore. 

His pace became vicious, fast and hard, with no thought but to his own pleasure. I reached behind me to clasp my hands behind his neck, holding myself in place as his eyes watched my breasts bounce with each thrust. The coil of pleasure in my belly was overwhelming; I couldn't think, couldn't speak, could barely breathe. All I could manage was his name, carried on gasps and moans and screams as he fucked me.

His thighs trembled beneath mine; I could tell he was close, and that thought was almost enough to tip me over into my final orgasm. Almost...almost...

The hand that had been fisted in my hair let my tresses loose and slid between my legs to rub hard at my clit, the little nub sliding between his first and second fingers. That did it; the world burst into piercing white shards, and I screamed, my body locked in a rictus of pleasure as he continued to pound erratically into me, his rhythm faltering as he reached his own completion with a roar of equal parts triumph and relief. 

I thought I would never float back down to the real world, that I would remain in the heights of my orgasm for eternity, but eventually I came back down, sprawled over his rumpled sheets, panting and hazy, my body limp and boneless. Loki was lying next to me, trembling, out of breath, but his smile was radiant, like a fox leaving the henhouse. One arm was flung heavily across my stomach, and I reached down to hold his hand in both of mine. 

For a while, we laid just like that, our breaths evening out as our hearts returned to a normal pace, still aside from the occasional aftershock of pleasure. After perhaps half an hour, Loki pushed himself up onto his forearms and looked down at me, sweeping a damp curl from my forehead. His eyes were bright, like emeralds catching firelight.

"So, Aria," he crooned, stroking the tip of his nose against mine, "how was it? How did it feel to be shown real pleasure?"

I smiled and took his face between my hands, kissing him with all the passion I'd kept hidden inside me my entire adult life, passion that I could now use, and use well, thanks entirely to him. When the kiss broke, I supplied my answer.

"Magical."

[asgardianintern]

I NEED OPINIONS PEOPLE.

I've been writing and performing more of my spoken word poetry, and I'm feeling more and more confident in my ability to not suck. I want to start putting my work out there. MY QUESTION TO YOU IS: If I videoed me doing my poetry, is that something you guys would be interested in seeing? I'd really like to hear some feedback, not just on my poetry but on my performance. Please let me know!

[asgardianintern]

Summertime

A/N: I'm so SO sorry about my silence, we've had issues with money and haven't been able to get internet. Anyway, here's a little something to keep you all warm until summer gets here. 

In all seriousness, this is probably my favorite fantasy. Enjoy. :)

The golden summer sun beat down on the back of Tom's neck, the gravel crunching beneath his boots as he walked down the deserted country road, a soft smile on his lips. He was State-side for a shoot, in the heart of the Midwest, on a nature preserve in the middle of the prairie. There was a small town close by where he was staying, but for the first time since arriving, he had a free day. The town was nice, but there wasn't really much to do or see, so he had gone for a walk, taking turns at random until he had wound up out in the middle of nowhere. No sounds but the wind and the birds, no voices, no traffic. Nothing but serenity and warm silence. 

That is, until he heard the sound of a guitar drifting from the middle of a field. He stopped mid-stride, his head cocked as he listened more closely. Yes, there it came again, a slow, sweet melody, a woman's voice twined between the chords. He couldn't see anybody, but the sound was too clear to be a radio. Shrugging, he decided to investigate, venturing into the waist-high grass, grateful that he had opted for jeans rather than shorts despite the heat. Further in, the song grew louder, the chords slow but cheerful, in a pleasant major key. A hymn, he thought. Something that reminded him of a quiet chapel, sunlight filtered through colored glass, and the sweet smells of hay and sawdust. He got so caught up in the sense memory that he almost tripped over the young woman laying down in the grass, the guitar across her stomach, the song coming to a halt as she started, yelping.

She sat up, pressing her fret hand to her heart, as if to calm a sudden, rapid acceleration. Tom held up his hands apologetically, stepping back a foot or so lest she feel threatened. He apologized for intruding, explaining that he had heard her singing and had come to investigate.

She assured him that all was well, a small, sweet smile forming on her lips. She set the guitar (a Gibson, he saw, like his) aside, scootched to her right, and patted the bit of tamped-down grass beside her. The invitation was unmistakable, and Tom found himself helpless to resist. He sat, denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him. Leaning back on one hand, he extended the other to her, giving her his name. The woman took it, her hand soft and strong in his. She told her name was Rosemary, but that she would also answer to Rose. He smiled and without really thinking about it, brought her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

Tom couldn't help but notice the blush that colored her cheeks when he kissed her hand, couldn't help but grin at the sweetness of it. Of her. She was what he had always imagined an American country girl to look like. Skin smooth, pale for mid-June, with a spatter of freckles across her arms, shoulders, and cheeks. She looked as if she'd been sprinkled with brown sugar. Her hair was the color of maple syrup, mostly tucked in a plait that hung over her shoulder, but a few curled strands had escaped and blew across her face and neck when the breeze picked up. She was slender, but there was a fair amount of strength in her, if the muscle tone in her arms and legs was anything to go by. She was barefoot, wearing a red sundress, carrying nothing but her guitar. No purse, no phone, no makeup. Just her, the sun, and the music she made. Tom had to admit, she was refreshing.

They talked for what felt like hours, the sun continuing its set course above them. She told him about life out here in the prairie-as it turned out, she lived in the town where he was staying for the shoot. This pasture (she was very adamant about the difference between a pasture and a field) belonged to her grandmother, whom she was visiting for the day. He told her about his life in London, about his sisters and his parent's divorce. Rose didn't seem to know who he was, and Tom was grateful for that. It meant they could avoid all the awkwardness that came with recognition. It was strange, how differently people acted when they knew he was famous, and it was nice, for once, to just have a conversation without that in the way. 

After a while, his eyes began to drift over her when she looked up at the sky, her hands gesturing elegantly as she wildly animated a point she was making. She was younger than he was, but not by much, no more than a couple of years. Her neck was very slender, almost delicate, with a tiny starburst of freckles nestled in the hollow of her throat. By the softness and spread of her breasts, and the lack of a second set of straps over her shoulders, he could tell she wasn't wearing a bra. The fact that her breasts, full and soft as they were, were barely hidden behind the thin cotton of her dress sent a spike of arousal straight to his groin. It was all he could do not to groan at the sight of them, the barest evidence of her nipples pressing against the fabric, the rise and fall of them as she breathed. 

His gaze traveled downward, across the small slope of her belly, the gentle curve of her waist flowing into slender hips. A delicate gold chain was fastened around her ankle, her legs long and coltish and smooth, and he found himself wondering what they would feel like beneath his hands. Suddenly, Tom wanted nothing more than to start down at her ankles and kiss his way up, lifting her dress and discovering where exactly those fantastic legs led. His teeth clamped down on his lower lip; evidence of his thoughts was making itself very obvious in the way the front of his jeans was beginning to bulge. Surreptitiously, he hoped, he raised his leg, shielding his crotch from her gaze. He hoped she wouldn't notice, a blush rising on his cheeks at the thought, and he prayed he'd be able to at the very least make it to a public restroom before his need got out of hand. 

Before long, Rosemary sat up and stretched, her arms winding above her as her back arched, her hips lifting and causing her skirt to fall farther up her leg, revealing one milky thigh. Tom thought he had suppressed the moan that bubbled up in him at the movement of her body, but suddenly, her eyes flickered down to him. Her brow was arched curiously, and there was a touch of genuine concern in her eyes. He assured her that he was fine, that he was just a bit stiff from lying on the ground, but at the movement of his leg, she found her gaze drawn to the very area he was trying to hide, her eyebrows rising almost to her hairline. Her cheeks colored prettily, and the faint traces of a grin flickered around the edges of her all-too-kissable mouth. 

Tom felt embarrassment surge hotly through him, and he raised up on his elbows, apologizing and muttering something about leaving her alone. Callused fingertips pressed to his lips, scratching pleasantly as she hushed him. Those strong hands were on his chest now, stopping him from rising. Urging him to lie back down, she lay with him, her warmth against his side. She looked down his body; Tom felt heat curl through him at the way she bit her lip. Softly, almost hesitantly, she asked him if his apparent interest was raised because of her.

What else could he say, there was no sense in lying now. Tom nodded slowly, apology written clearly in his eyes. To his shock, her luscious lips split wide in a pleased smile, sunlight glinting off of white, slightly crooked teeth. 

Then, oh God.

She rolled over him, her leg between his, her hands braced in the dirt on either side of his head. Her eyes were bright with lust, with eagerness, and yes, just a little bit of fear. Slowly, she lifted her leg so that her thigh was pressed against his erection, and he groaned, rolling his hips beneath her. Rosemary lowered her head, her lips a breath away from his, and, both verbally and non-verbally, began to claim responsibility for what just the thought of her had awoken.

In a gentle rhythm, she rocked her hips, rubbing her thigh against him, the friction of skin against denim like madness itself. Tom threw his head back, one hand curved over her hip while the other cupped the back of her thigh, holding her tight to him, fingers molding against the deliciously bare flesh. And for several minutes, they breathed and rocked, hips rising and falling in perfect synchronization, as if they had practiced this for ages. Her mouth dropped to his neck, her lips like silk and fire as they pressed to the spot where his pulse beat the strongest. Tom could feel her too, could feel her core sliding against his own thigh between his jeans and her dress, and he was consumed with the need to hear her moan his name. He raised his knee again, intently rubbing his thigh between her legs, and was rewarded with a soft mewl against the side of his neck. The hand curved over her hip slid up her side, rested just under her breast, until he felt her nod of permission. The hair loosened from her braid tickled against his collarbones as his hand cupped her breast, fingers molding around the firm flesh. He could feel her nipple hardening against his palm as she gave a whispery little moan, her tongue dragging slowly up his throat to flick at his earlobe. Tom bucked beneath her, heels digging into the earth, until finally he could take no more of her teasing. 

With a heave and a growl, Tom wrapped his arms around her and rolled, lying her on her back in the grass. Her eyes caught the sun, winking like facets on fine gems, and he leaned down to kiss her. Beneath him, she arched, one slender leg draped around his hip as she allowed his tongue into her mouth. He could taste iced tea and peaches on her tongue, could almost taste the sunlight on her lips, and he dropped his pelvis against hers, groaning as his hardness met the yielding heat of her center. He touched his mouth to her lips, the tip of her nose, each cheek, her forehead, her chin, and finally her throat, grinning as her quickly stifled cry betrayed the sweet spot just above the crook of her shoulder. He gently grazed his teeth over it, laved it with his tongue, relishing the way he had her writhing beneath him, her strong hands grasping at his shoulders, clutching fistfuls of his T-shirt. Slowly, giving her time to stop him if she wished, he twisted the flimsy straps of her sundress around his fingers, tugging them off her shoulders to fall against her arms. Smiling, she worked her arms free of the straps and arched her back in invitation, lifting her breasts as he curled his fingers in the bodice of her dress and tugged it down.

Oh. Christ.

He whispered an oath at the sight of her breasts, salt-pale beneath the defined tan-line and full, tipped with dusky pink nipples that begged to be kissed. Tom's eyes, the dark blue-grey of storm clouds at sea, raised to hers as he took her breasts in his hands, fingertips rubbing her nipples with gentle affection. She cooed happily, kiss-swollen lips forming his name as his thumbs swept back and forth, back and forth. Unable to hold back his hunger for her, Tom's mouth descended to one peak, trapping it between his lips as his tongue flicked and rubbed. One hand reached up to pull the band from the end of her plait, threading through her silken, sun-warmed hair as the other attended to the nipple his mouth could not, the two switching after a moment. Rose clutched at him, clutched at the grass until she ripped it out of the ground, clutched at the earth beneath her as he filled her with color and pleasure, turning her blood to fire and her veins to rainbows. 

Soon, too soon, he raised his head, licking his lips to savor the taste of her there. For all that she looked as though she'd been dusted with brown sugar, her skin was definitely as sweet, and he wondered if she was freckled all over. Impish delight winking in eyes that were no less lust-darkened for it, he kissed his way down her trembling form, feeling the almost feverish heat of her skin through the sundress, until he sat back on his knees between her legs. His hands cupping the backs of her knees, Tom urged her to bend them, her feet wide apart and flat on the ground, and he slowly slid his hands up her thighs, pushing the skirt of her dress up and up until-

oh god oh god

She was without panties, the spread of her legs baring her completely to the intensity of his stare. His mouth went dry as a desert, every ounce of blood in him boiling at the sight that lay before him, hips tilted like an offering. While he was stricken still, Rose reached down and tugged at the tail of his T-shirt, pulling it up until he complied and raised his arms, letting her rid him of the garment altogether. Her eyes went from jade to emerald, pupils expanding at the sight of him bare from the hips up, smooth skin too pale for a Midwesterner, lightly dotted with freckles of his own, and ridged with sleek, taut muscle. Her tongue slid over her lips, her fingers curling in the grass as if she longed to reach out and touch him, but before she had the chance, Tom remembered his position and took advantage of it, lying on his stomach between her legs. One, he pulled over his shoulder, and the other he pushed against, his hand spread over her inner thigh, opening her up to him. There was no mistaking the shine of her arousal in the midday sun, how slick and how swollen she was already, and he felt no small amount of pride as he lowered his head, curls that had been artificially darkened to a reddish-gold brushing her thighs as his tongue prised her folds apart. 

She jolted, giving a sound not unlike the yip of a startled pup, and he smiled against her as his tongue began to trace shapes over her clit, letters in English, Greek, and Russian he had learned specifically for this purpose. The heel of his hand pressed over her lower belly, sliding under her dress, craving her skin against his as he held her down, held her still so his tongue could continue its leisurely exploration. She was moaning his name, God's name, uttering curses and prayers in the same breath, trembling and tensing as he ground the flat, textured part of his tongue against her clit in circles. Her fingers trembled as she slid them softly into his hair, stroking his curls with a strange tenderness, nails scratching lightly at his scalp to encourage him. Groaning, sighing, gasping, she became a symphony as his fingers slid into her, solid and deep, tapping a beat against a spot that made her toes curl. His tongue, ever attentive, ever seeking, fluttered like a moth's wing against her, swirled and flicked, laved and licked until her spine bent like an archer's bow, her teeth clenched around a shriek that was swept away on a prairie wind. Her thighs twitched as she lay there, catching her breath, and Tom kissed them gently, first one and then the other, tugging a hand from his hair and winding his fingers between hers. 

Rose smiled at him, her eyes dreamy and full of clouds, and she pulled on his hand, urging him up to her. When his face with level with hers, she cupped it reverently between her hands and began to kiss away the shine of her arousal on his lips and chin, removing her essence with a thorough sort of elation. When he was clean, she wrapped an arm around his neck and held him tightly to her, her other hand sliding down his chest, down his stomach to feel the tremors of the muscles there, and down further to where the warmest part of him swelled beneath constricting denim. Tom groaned against the side of her neck as she rubbed her palm over him, smiling when he twitched against her hand. Deftly, her fingers unbuckled his belt and flicked open the button, opened his fly with a metallic rasp, and grasped him through his underwear. With her hand hot around him, she whispered a plea into his ear, that word full of desire, heavy with passion, aching with longings yet to be fulfilled.

Tom kissed her throat, her jaw, her lips, reaching between them to work his jeans and boxers down to his knees before kicking them and his boots off, his manhood springing eagerly into the open air. She grasped him again, gave him a firm, slow stroke from base to tip, and his hips jerked forward, close enough to her center that he could feel the heat of her there. His hand replaced hers, and he traced circles around her clit with the head of his cock, their thin little noises of pleasure exactly two octaves apart. He held her like this, teasing her, watching as her hair spread out over the grass like a fan of silk, until she bucked with demand beneath him, a flicker of russet fire in the chestnut swirled in her eyes as the soft curve of her lips drew into an impatient line. His smile was soft, apologetic, and he aligned himself with her entrance before lowering his head to kiss her. He took his time entering her, savoring every slick, feverish inch of her as her pretty hands clutched at his back, their shared moans mixing and melting against their tongues. 

When he was fully seated, Tom pulled back from her, soaking in the sight of her in apparent bliss, her eyes lidded and hazy, lips rosy and plumped from their kisses and her teeth parted slightly, the sunlight caught in the fine drops of perspiration on her brow, like tiny diamonds embedded in her skin. With reverence he touched her, cupped her cheek like it was made of delicate porcelain, and rocked his hips back, gritting his teeth as she squeezed around him. Warning flashed in his eyes as he plunged into her again, cautioning her that if she was not careful, he would be undone far too soon. Indeed, just these first few minutes of her, with the taste of her still seared on his tongue and the texture of her skin sunken into the lines of his hand, he was dangerously close to losing whatever shreds of self-control he still had left.

At first, it was slow, unhurried, as if Time itself had halted in its course the moment they were joined. Rose undulated her hips beneath him, rising to meet each deep thrust as he rocked down to her, and Tom was captivated by the roll and flex of her muscles. He could not bear to have even a single inch of her covered, and soon her dress lay to the side of her, his hands running greedily over the newly exposed skin. Like an ember slowly being coaxed into a flame, so their pleasure was glowing in them, warm within their bellies. Rose's hands were hungry for him, trailing over his arms, his chest and stomach, his shoulders and the muscular planes of his back before raking through his curls, tousled by the wind and by their passion. And when his eyes locked with hers, warm hazel meshing with soulful blue, the warmth she felt below was echoed in her heart, which swelled with joy as he smiled adoringly at her. 

A stoked ember will burst into flame sooner or later, and soon their longing grew in its intensity, their bodies responding in kind. Rose threw her head back as her tongue was loosened by the increase in velocity, voicing her moans and whimpers and cries of his name to the endless prairie sky. Tom felt the vibration of everything she uttered, his face buried in her neck and his arms aching from holding her so tight, sure that with every second that passed, he was slowly losing his mind to her. Reaching back, he wrapped her legs around his waist, tilting her hips up and changing the angle of his thrusts. Pride exploded in him as he struck something deep within her, a small secret place that made her arch her back, fingers scrabbling helplessly at the dirt as she keened. Seized with the need to see her in the throes of searing ecstasy, Tom kept that angle, dug his toes into the dirt for a better foothold, and began slamming into her, kissing her with ruthless passion as one shaking hand slid between them to find her clit. Her cry was silken to his ears, honey in his mouth, and he focused every sinew of his body to tipping her over the edge of that sacred cliff.

And, mere minutes later, she positively flew over.

Her screams were sweet as birdsong as her body pulled taut, all harpstrings and piano wire. Tom was relentless, wringing every ounce of pleasure from her that he could. Thrown headlong into her crescendo, she offered him an aria, a siren's song that drew him into his own destruction, every part of him pierced through with sensation. Minutes may have passed, or hours flown by; even a cycle of the sun may have passed them by as their bodies locked, thrashed, spasmed, then stilled at the very height of it all. 

Finally, they floated back down to the warm earth, collapsing in a heap of entwined limbs and sweat-slicked skin and heaving, gasping breaths. Rose almost believed she could feel the earth give a tremor beneath them, shaking from the force of their lovemaking, and she smiled when she realized that the tremors were only her own.

When they had regained some sense of themselves, when mind and body were once again connected, Tom rolled to the side of her, closing his eyes and smiling happily, reaching to take her hand in his. Almost shyly, she threaded her fingers between his, squeezing weakly. His eyes raked over her, as hers trailed down the length of him, and their laughter was soft and harmonious, the sound of distant church bells. Both were streaked with dirt, blades of brittle grass stuck to their backs and shoulders; Rose had even caught a fair amount in her hair. Patiently, Tom pulled out every piece, tucking the damp, riotous curls behind her ears. She looked better with her hair down. 

The sun shone golden down upon them, bright and blessed, anointing them with its light as Tom pulled her into his arms. They would have to move eventually; the hardness of the ground and the rough scratch of the dry grass against their backs would soon prove too uncomfortable. But for now, he held this beautiful country woman against him, content to feel that prairie-fire heart beat alongside his while the world turned in a place outside of this.

[asgardianintern]

Dean Winchester Meets a Fan

A/N: This is something that happened after watching Season 3 and drinking. I didn't sign up for these feels. Also, this is the first and only time I've written anything for Supernatural, and I'm sorry if it shows.

“You want to give me a what?”

Dean took a step back from the young woman who had knocked on his hotel room door with a timid smile on her face and had asked if she could speak to him. “A hug,” she reiterated, glancing up at him but never quite making eye contact. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Dean’s eyebrows shot up, and he rubbed a hand down his face; God knew his life was already weird, but this was downright bizarre. “Okay, lady, for starters, I don’t know you. I don’t know how you know me, and it’s freaking me out. Hell, how did you even find me?”

She shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

Dean regarded her skeptically, shoving his hands in his pockets. This chick was odd, even cryptic. She hadn’t given him her name, she wouldn’t tell him how she knew him or how she’d found him. Dean wondered if she was even human. If a demon was possessing her, they hadn’t picked a very convincing wrapper. This was a girl who faded into the background; plain, long dark hair that covered her face, glasses that hid her eyes, soft-spoken. Not exactly the type that would get his attention. Yet, somehow, she had it. “But…why a hug?”

She smiled. “Let’s just say that I’m a fan of yours, Dean.”

“A…a fan?”

“Yes.” She tucked back a strand of her hair and straightened slightly. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can check for weapons, but I swear that I’m unarmed.” That soft smile returned. “Just one hug is all I ask.”

The hunter sighed; there was something in her voice, something that made him want to trust her. He didn’t think she was a demon; they didn’t normally act this way. After a moment of deliberation, he fixed her with a sobering look. “Alright, fine. But if you try and pull something, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

“Duly noted,” she acknowledged with a laugh. She stepped toward him, and although Dean was still wary of this strange woman, he forced himself to relax. Gently, she slipped her arms around his waist, placing her head on his chest just above his heart. “Oh, Dean…if only you knew.”

Not quite sure what to do with his hands, he replied, “Knew what?”

“How many people love you.” She felt him grow still, and smiled. “There are thousands of people who root for you, who want you to be happy, who sleep better at night knowing that you’re out there fighting. People you’ve never met and never will meet. We’ve watched you struggle and we’ve watched you falter, and despite everything, you’re still here. We wish that we could be as brave as you, that we could have even an ounce of your strength. You’re a hero to so many, and it pains us to see that you don’t know it and wouldn’t believe it.”

Dean was floored by her statement. He felt as if the air had suddenly been removed from the room, her words like small fists to his stomach. What the hell was she playing at? “Who’s we?”

“Your fans. Did you think I was alone?” She snuggled-actually snuggled- against him and tightened her arms a fraction. “We look up to you, Dean. You give us hope that no matter how bad things get, they can always get better. That whatever obstacles we face, we can fight, and we can overcome them.” Her voice grew smaller, a bit solemn. “We’re at war with our own kinds of demons, and a lot of us bear the scars of the battles we’ve lost. But you’re living, breathing proof that it doesn’t matter how bad things get, or how low you sink. There will always be a way to get back.”

The elder Winchester wasn’t exactly sure when he had wrapped his arms around her shoulders, but as he let her words wash around him, he held her closer. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we know how low an opinion you have of yourself. We know that you feel useless, worthless, unable to do anything right, like everything you touch goes wrong. That you contribute nothing good to the world. But you’re wrong.” Her voice dropped to an intense whisper, choked by her conviction. “You mean so much to so many people. The love you have for Sam and your friends…it’s inspirational. You inspire us, Dean.” He could almost hear her smiling, and something deep in his chest began to ache. “In fact, most of us wish that we had a brother like you. Someone who cares so fiercely, who would protect us with their lives. We don’t have that, but you give us hope that someday, we might.”

Her arms loosened, and Dean realized just how tightly he was holding onto her. This girl that he’d known for a total of ten minutes, and he was clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in the world. His arms fell to his sides as she stepped back, and he noticed that there were tears in her eyes, shining behind the frames of her glasses. “Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured.

“It does to me.”

Her grin was wide, livening up her face considerably. “That’s sweet of you.”

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, his mind still reeling. “Are you…real? I mean…you’re human, right?”

She laughed. “Yes, I’m just as human as you are.”

The bed creaked beneath him as the hunter sat on the edge. “Are you gonna stick around?”

The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t. I don’t really belong here.”

“Wait…am I ever gonna see you again?”

Another shake of the head. “No. Not in person, anyway.” She went to him again and put her hand on his face, leaning down so that their foreheads touched. It was an intimate gesture, tender and affectionate, and that ache in his chest deepened. “Just remember what I’ve told you. There are people that care about you, people that love you. There are people who believe that you are enough.”

And without another word, she straightened and left the room. Dean sat in silence for a long while, her words echoing in his head. They were words that were sincerely meant, honestly given, and the elder Winchester would remember them to his dying day.

[asgardianintern]

She Feels The Rain

A/N: I love the rain, I always have, and so this little oneshot was the product of a week straight of just rain. Also, the title comes from one of my favorite sayings: "Some feel the rain, others just get wet."

"Tom. Tom, wake up."

Exhausted from their day of travel, Tom briefly considered pretending not to hear her. Then, with a sigh, he rolled over, too sleepy to even open his eyes. "Mmm...Faith? What is it?"

"It's raining."

"...Okay."

He rolled back over and pulled the covers up. Faith insistently shook his shoulder, her breath in his ear as she whispered excitedly.

"Come on. Let's go for a walk."

Tom peeked out from beneath the quilt just long enough to snag a glance at the digital clock, then ducked back under with a groan. "Are you mental? It's past three in the morning."

"Perfect. No one will bother us."

He flopped over onto his back and stared up at his wife of roughly four months. They'd gotten married in London, but were in the States now, visiting her family. Faith's mother insisted that they stay with her during their visit, and on putting together a small ceremony at her home church, which would take place in two days. Faith, of course, had indulged her wishes, though she confessed she thought it a bit silly. Upon arriving early that morning, they had been hugged, planned, and talked half to death. All Tom wanted was some rest, but it seemed the world was conspiring against his plan.

"Must we?"

She fixed him with a pleading look that she knew was impossible for him to resist. "Please? It would mean so much to me."

You little vixen.

Tom held his ground for a moment longer, then sighed with resignation and threw off the covers, rubbing a hand through his tousled curls as he sat up. "Alright, alright. But I still think you're completely mad."

Faith smiled and kissed his cheek before climbing out of bed to get dressed. "You knew I was crazy when you married me."

"True," he joked as he pulled a grey T-shirt over his head. Deciding that jeans probably weren't the best choice to wear in the rain, he chose a pair of his running shorts. Slipping on his sandals, he pulled out a jacket and turned, raising an eyebrow at his wife. "Is that all you're wearing?"

Faith was dressed in an old college T-shirt, a pair of black cotton shorts, and a smile. No shoes, no jacket. "Yeah. Why?"

"Because you'll catch your death out there."

She laughed and crossed the room to pat his cheek. "Oh, you're not getting rid of me that easily, sweetheart." Faith folded her hands around his, something she did when she was trying to persuade him of something. "I was born and raised here. I've walked barefoot through these grounds since I was a child. It didn't kill me then, and it won't kill me now. Besides, this isn't like the rain you're used to."

"How so?"

"For one thing, it's warmer, and for another, it's cleaner." Her eyes lit up as she pulled him toward the door. "Now come on, before Mom hears us."

Tiptoeing down silent corridors and through empty rooms, they snuck out of the house, something Tom hadn't done since he was sixteen. Once outside where the music of the rain crescendoed from a whisper to a murmur and water dripped, pooled, and glistened on every solid surface, Faith's lips curved in the widest, most explosively joyful grin Tom had ever witnessed, and she took his hand. "God, isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

He had to agree, but it wasn't the rainy night he found beautiful. His wife's utter fascination with the rain, the simple but overwhelming pleasure it brought her-that was the sight he found most precious. Such unrestrained happiness was rare, even for her, and it filled his heart whenever he saw it. Tom squeezed her hand and kissed her temple, drawing her against his side.

"Yes, it is."

They began to walk, Faith letting her bare feet skim through the sodden grass, even kicking through the gravel on the side of the rutted road. She had heavy calluses on her feet, what she jokingly referred to as "hobbit syndrome," and she barely felt the small pebbles as she trod on them. They strolled through the sleeping town, not saying much, just enjoying the sight, sound, and feel of the rain as it fell down on them. Faith kept taking slow, deep breaths, savoring the smell of wet pavement, grass, earth, and the clean, refreshing scent of the rain. The world was being born again through water, everything remade fresh and new while mortals slept, and she felt both humbled and privileged to be a witness to it. Ever since she was young, she enjoyed walking in the rain, splashing in puddles and dragging her feet through the streams that ran through the gutters. As she grew older, she imagined that the rain would wash away her sorrows, her anxieties and fears; slough them off and leave them to evaporate into nothing. Rain healed. Rain cleansed. Her soul cried out for it, and she was thankful beyond description that the other half of her soul, the absolute love of her life, was sharing this experience with her now.

Loathe to break the silence, Tom nevertheless grew a bit worried about the fact that they had been out for over half an hour and were showing no signs of heading for home. "So, where precisely are we going, love?"

Faith snuggled up against his side, squeezing his hand. "To an empty pasture a quarter of a mile away from here," she answered innocently. Her husband arched a dubious eyebrow.

"Might I ask why?"

She smiled in a way that was both coy and a touch sneaky, and he felt his heart do a funny little flip. "You'll see."

Tom didn't ask any further questions, trusting Faith to show him what she had dragged him out here for. The rest of the walk passed in comfortable silence, each holding the other close for affection's sake rather than for warmth. Several minutes later, beyond a line of trees, they reached the open field. No houses were in sight, no roads; no signs of civilization whatsoever. Tom leaned against a tree trunk, pulling her into his arms.

"So, what's this big surprise, darling?"

Faith smirked and pushed gently against his chest, breaking his hold on her. To his great surprise, she slowly began to peel off her soaked T-shirt, revealing the glorious absence of a bra. Tom's mouth went dry as she shimmied out of her shorts, and he saw that she was without panties as well. Piling her clothes beneath a tree, she ran out into the pasture, face upturned and arms outstretched, basking in the purity of fresh rainfall. Water cascaded down her bare skin, dripped from the ends of her hair, bathed her from head to toe. In that moment as she danced in the rain, Tom saw an Earth goddess from an ancient time who had shed her human mask and assumed her true, etheral form. A being that was nurturing yet sensual, her touch bringing health and life to all whom she graced. A force to be reckoned with, but kind and even maternal to those in her care. Almost as if he couldn't help himself, Tom began to walk out to her, his steps slow and cautious, afraid the sound of his approach would break the spell.

When he reached her, she turned, an exhilarated smile on her face. She leapt into his arms and kissed him, holding his face reverently between her hands. Tom's own hands curved over her naked hips, pulling her close as their tongues met, his grip tightening slightly when he tasted the electricity created between them. Despite the coldness of the rain, he felt himself growing hard as her bare breasts pressed against his chest, soft flesh against soaked cotton. He wanted her desperately, wanted to lick every drop of water from her skin as he thrust into her slowly and deeply. Her mind clearly on the same track as his, Faih wrapped one leg around his waist and rocked her hips against his, the friction making both of them groan. Warm lips trailed up and down his neck, her mouth deliciously hot as she whispered in his ear, "Make love to me."

Without a moment's hesitation, Tom nodded and took her hand, starting back toward the trees. To his surprise, Faith yanked him to a stop, grasping his arm. He looked back at her, brows forrowed in confusion and concern. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head insistently. "Take me here. Please, Tom."

He wrapped his arms around her, fingers kneading restlessly at her back. "Darling, we can't. Someone might see us."

"We're miles from the road and the closest house is more than half a mile away. Besides, no one's crazy enough to be out here in the middle of the night besides us." She smiled and rubbed her nose slowly against his, teasing him. Tempting him.

He tucked a limp curl behind her ear. "We'll get filthy."

Faith wrapped her arms around his neck, tucking her head under his chin. "Clothes dry and mud washes off, but the memory of an experience like this will last forever. Please, I need you now. I need to share this with you."

His resolve held out for a moment longer, then he surrendered with a groan, kissing her as the last of his reservations crumbled away. He'd never made love in the rain before, and he was suddenly quite eager to share this moment with her, to etch it into their memories like a stone engraving.

Before he knew it, both of them were naked and on the ground, the meadow grasses waving and nodding around them. Tom briefly worried that Faith wouldn't be comfortable like this, but the arch of her back and the slight growl in her moans signalled that comfort was the least of her worries now. He smiled into the kiss, then broke away, pressing his forehead to hers as his hand snuck between them, sliding down her wet stomach to her even wetter folds. Their eyes locked, neither wavering as his fingers sought out her clit, rubbing it with practiced, rapid circles. Down came the rain, soft and cool upon them as he pleasured her, her moans rising above the patter and swish of falling water. When Faith threw her head back, his eyes never strayed from her face, drinking her in as the earth drank in the rain. She was everything; she was his life, his breath, his waking thought and his living dream. She set a tune to the beat of his heart, brought music and color into his existence. Tom had thought such a love to be myth, a false expectation cooked up by disappointed housewives who daydreamed of better things. But this-she-was real. Faith was the whole of the universe contained in one being, a woman made of stardust and nebulae and infinity, and she had chosen him, who was mortal dust. It still left him speechless when he really let it sink in. She was his, and his only. He held that beautiful, ever-expanding galaxy of a heart in his hand. And as she came undone by that self-same hand, the shrill cries of his name lost to the heavy night air, Tom realized what a precious, precious gift he had been given to be able to call her his wife.

Panting and trembling, Faith twisted her fingers in her husband's sodden curls and kissed him with rain-slicked lips, thirsty for the taste of him as her legs wound tight around his waist. Every movement brought a tiny aftershock of pleasure, a lovely reminder of how damn good he was with his hands, but it wasn't enough. She needed more. She needed him.

"Tom, now."

He growled, his teeth bared next to her ear, and sheathed himself inside her with one languid thrust, her hands dropping to his ass to feel the muscles contract and release as he set a slow, steady pace. His moans were rough, primal, yet every kiss, every touch was tender, worshipful. Their bodies moved in fluid synchronization, arching and twisting and rocking in untaught harmony, movements so deeply ingrained within their souls that they needed no thought or practice. Tiny pebbles bit into her back, their sharpness muted by the prairie grasses, the mud shifting and indenting to cradle them both. In this moment in time, with the rain above and the earth below, with no limits and no boundaries, the two felt their love expand to its full height and breadth, felt it fill the air around them, felt it vibrating in the spaces between the raindrops. It was deep, raw, and freeing to love each other so completely, without a single restraint or precaution.

Pleasure was building slow in her stomach, like an ember being coaxed into a flame, and she pushed on his shoulders, rolling them over so that she straddled his hips. Smiling beatifically, she aligned her body flush with his, kissing his chest and undulating her hips. Her name etched onto his tongue, Tom took her hand in his, fingers meshed tightly between hers as she rode him, the other hand cupping and kneading her breast. Minutes stretched into eternities as they balanced on the edge of completion, so incredibly and irretrievably lost in each other. At the penultimate moment, their bodies wound tight as springs as hot as flames despite the coolness of the rain, Faith leaned her forehead against his, letting his eyes consume her entirely. As she tipped over the edge, she swore she saw her name etched into the back of those denim-blue eyes, felt his name being branded in the amber of her own, and surrendered to the piercing, ecstatic agony that shuddered through her.

Tom arched beneath her, toes curling into the mud and between the roots of the grass, his scream and hers like thunder and lightning in the night, electrifying and rumbling through them. Even with such destructive pleasure seizing every bit of him, he dared not close his eyes, unwilling to miss seeing Faith like this. Every sinew in her body stretched tight above him, her head thrown back with her face to the heavens, shrieking his name like it was her salvation.

Eventually, they came down from their blissful heights, muscles uncoiling and chests heaving against each other. They stayed like this for an uncounted space of time, just enjoying the after-effects of their explosive lovemaking, until the rain and mud became too cold and uncomfortable. Smiling, they got to their feet, stretching sore muscles and laughing at the varying degrees of filthiness on their bodies. Faith gathered Tom's discarded clothes and wrapped her arms around her husband's waist, tugging him toward the treeline where her clothes were still piled beneath a tree. They dressed and began to walk home, their steps unhurried and the silence between them one of love and peace, their smiles indelible.

Once back at Faith's mother's house, they quickly wrung out their clothes as best they could, then hosed the worst of the mud and bits of grass off of their bodies before tiptoeing back inside, snagging a couple of towels to mop up their wet footprints. Once they were dry and warm, their clothes soaking in the tub, they slipped back into bed, her back pressed to his chest, her head pillowed on his arm. As they began to drift into sleep, Tom tightened an arm around her waist, skimming his lips across her still-damp hair.

"I love you," he whispered.

Thank you for loving me, he thought.

[asgardianintern]

Um. Okay, wow.

I guess I never really introduced myself, I kinda just started posting stuff so, hi everyone!

So, this is my writing blog! I'm going to try and keep stuff queued up for you guys to read, but I can't make any big promises. Lots of crazy shit going on right now. Mostly including me being homeless but no biggie.

My every day blog is here, if you'd like to check that out. Honestly, it's mostly social justice, feminism, and Tom Hiddleston. 

Also, I probably won't take requests, but if you have a story idea you'd like to share, or would like advice or questions answered about writing, I'd be happy to hear them and help in any way I can! I certainly hope you enjoy, as I've enjoyed hearing what you've all had to say so far. 

Seriously though, I have not stopped internally squeeing at your comments on my writing.

Stahp. 

[asgardianintern]

Stay With Me

A/N: A feelsy story, may have a part two.

There was a knock at my door, gentle at first but soon more insistent. I groaned and heaved myself off of my couch, all but throwing my book onto the coffee table as I stood and shuffled across the room. "Jesus shit, I'm coming already," I grumbled as I zipped up my jacket.

There on the threshold stood my longest and dearest friend, holding a bottle of white moscato in one hand and a giant bag of mint M&M's in the other. My favorite wine and my favorite candy; of course he would.

"Hope." Tom gave me his best 'the sun shines out of my ass' smile and wagged the goodies at me. "A little bird told me you might be needing these."

I scowled. "I may have to strangle a little bird later." I'd made a passing comment in a text to a mutual friend of ours, Luke, who had obviously told Tom that I shouldn't be alone right now. However right he might be, that was still meant to be in confidence. "Come in," I sighed, stepping back to allow him inside. Self consciously, I tugged at my rumpled pullover, almost wishing I cared enough to put on actual clothes instead of baggy sweatpants and a tanktop.

Tom flopped down on the sofa while I retrieved two glasses from the kitchen. I hesitated for a moment; of course he'd plopped down right in the middle where I would have no choice but to sit next to him. Where I could smell his cologne and the lingering traces of his shampoo, where I could feel the heat of his skin even through layers of clothing, where I could hear his breathing...

Oh God, fucking stop it already.

I sighed and sat down, crushing myself against the arm of the couch as much as I could and pulling my feet up beneath me, so at least I could put some distance between us. I was sure Luke meant well, but on top of all the other problems I was having, I really didn't need the reminder that the one person in the world I trusted, that I wanted to be with, was the one person I could never have.

Thanks a fucking bunch, Luke.

Tom opened the wine and poured it into the glasses while I tore into the bag of chocolate, popping a handful into my mouth. Taking a sip of his wine and grimacing a bit at the over-sweetness of it, he leaned back and leveled a concerned look at me. "Alright, now talk. What's going on?"

I played dumb, shrugging. "What do you mean?"

"What's got you in such a mopey state?" His eyes, bright and blue as ever, trailed over me, from my unkempt hair to my face entirely devoid of makeup, down to my sloppy attire.

Again, I shrugged and reached for my glass. "A lot of things."

"Such as?" That right eyebrow quirked up, a sure sign that he wasn't going to give up until I spilled.

After a long beat, I sighed. "It's just this past couple of weeks, everything's been piling up on me." My mother was moving out of the house where I had spent my teenage years and into a smaller, more manageable place. Which meant the usual stress of moving, meshed with the gnawing sadness of leaving a childhood home. Not to mention the terrible timing; around this time five years ago, my father had passed away after a short, painful struggle with cancer. The house that my mother was currently in the process of moving out of was the last place we had ever seen him alive.

As if that wasn't bad enough, my birthday had been last week. Any happiness that day should have brought me was squashed quickly when I got called in to work a twelve-hour shift that completely consumed my entire day. I had no strength left to celebrate much of anything all weekend, and so the day passed unnoticed by most, except for Tom and my mother, who had both visited me at work with cards and a hug.

All of this was quite enough to bear, but I had been so busy helping my mother move, working a full-time job, and juggling obligations with other friends that I hadn't really had time to address all the sadness and anxiety that was steadily growing within me. Even today, my first day off in a long while, I couldn't fully relax and let go of the pent-up emotion. I wanted to, and I knew that I should. But I just couldn't do it.

And now Tom was here, that innocent puppy-dog face making it easy for me to spill my guts to him all while holding inside the hurt that I nursed whenever he was near. I valued his friendship more than anything, and I wouldn't have traded it for the world. But I wanted more than that. I wanted to be the one to occupy his thoughts at all hours of the day, I wanted to be the one he couldn't wait to come home to. I wanted to be the one he loved, just as I knew he was the one I loved. But it couldn't happen, and past the hopes and the wishes and the maybe-someday's, I knew it never would. He was too good, too kind, and too goddamn perfect for someone like me.

I finished talking, biting my lip and downing roughly half of what was left in my glass. Tom nodded slowly, knowingly, and picked up the bottle to refill my glass. Most of what I had told him, he already knew about. But he could tell I was still holding some things back; he could always tell when I wasn't be entirely truthful. "Anything else you want to get off your chest?"

Sighing, I leaned my head back against the arm of the couch. "Yeah. I mean, it's kinda...personal." I felt a twinge of heat in my cheeks and cursed my pale complexion for giving me away so easily.

Tom scoffed. "Yes, because we never get personal with each other."

That coaxed a smile from me; he was just about the only guy I ever got personal with. Before I could protest, he wrapped a hand around my ankles and tugged my feet into his lap, pressing his thumb into the arch of my right foot. "You can tell me."

I sighed; his touch felt too good to tell him to stop. "Alright, but just remember, you asked." I crunched up a couple of M&M's for courage before continuing. "I've been kinda..." I waved a hand in the air, searching for the least graphic way to say this. "...frustrated lately."

"So you've said."

"Not that kind of frustrated," I replied. "Like...frustrated." I raised my eyebrows meaningfully, and I saw the light of dawning comprehension in his eyes.

"Oh."

I threw an arm over my eyes and groaned in embarrassment. I hadn't actually had sex of any kind yet, so I wasn't sure if this counted as sexual frustration or not. My ongoing virginity was not something I liked anyone to know about, so I talked a big game and kept it to myself. Not even Tom knew. But for a while now, at least a month, I'd had to get myself off twice a day at least just to keep from killing people. All I wanted was for someone to fuck me into next year, but whenever I thought about going out and hooking up with someone, just a one-night stand to take the edge off and gain some experience points, Tom's face would inevitably invade my thoughts. I would imagine his hands on me, his lips caressing mine, the sounds he would make as he took me. I couldn't do it; I didn't want anyone but him to be my first, so I considered myself doomed to be a virgin forever and hauled out the vibrator again.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn't notice at first how his hands slid from my feet up to my ankles, the tip of one finger circling the knob of bone. When at last I did acknowledge it, my breath hitched and my eyes widened a fraction. Whatever that touch meant, it was certainly having an effect on me, warmth zinging up and down my legs and setting a tingle between them. Smoothly, I hoped, I pulled my feet out of his lap and set them on the floor, raking a hand back through my hair. As my arm lowered to the couch, Tom caught my wrist, his movement so quick I barely had time to register it.

"What-"

He breathed my name, pulling on my arm until I had no choice but to scoot closer to him. My heart leapt into my throat as he brought my wrist up to his mouth, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. Agile fingers pushed up the sleeve of my jacket, and I froze.

Shit.

On my forearm, standing out against my dratted pale skin, was a rather nasty looking wound. Tom pulled back, the blue of his eyes hardening as he recognized the mark that resembled a cigarette burn but wasn't.

"Hope, you didn't-?"

Too ashamed to own up to it or even look him in the eye, I lowered my head, staring at my other hand in my lap. His tone was soft but clipped as he asked, "How long ago?"

"Three days," I whispered.

Of course, Tom had seen the scars that littered my arms and legs, little accusatory ovals that were as ugly as they were shameful. They'd been accumulating since I was fourteen and gave myself the one on my wrist, small and barely visible after so many years. He knew about the gouging, the digging of my fingernails into my skin, scratching and scratching until blood was drawn. My dirty little secret. The day I had told him the about the scars was the first time he had ever seen me cry. The urge had quieted a little since then, but it was a still a battle I fought every day, and after the time I had been having, I hadn't been strong enough to fight back.

He was silent for a long while, his hand still locking my arm in place, his breath steady against my wrist. Then, he inclined his head and pressed his lips to the mark. I hissed, partly out of the sting of contact but mostly out of shock; a kiss was about the last thing I had expected. His lips, soft and warm as I had imagined they'd be, lingered there for a moment or two. I expected him to lift his head, reprimand me, even leave, but instead he began slowly kissing his way down my forearm, his grip shifting. My mouth ran dry as a desert as he pressed his lips to my wrist, soft and kind against the first of my scars. There was a tug of arousal in the pit of my stomach, and I answered it with a tug of my own, trying to pull my hand from his grasp.

"Tom, what are you doing?"

He sighed, tightening his hold just enough so that I couldn't pull away, and finally lifted his gaze to mine. The blue that had been hard at first was now liquid, full of some trembling emotion that threatened to spill over. I'd seen him like this before, but never in regards to me. "If you can't be good to yourself, then I'll have to be."

I was stunned into unmoving silence as he brought my wrist to his mouth again, his kisses light and lingering. This was the last thing I expected from him, to be treated like I was some fragile, broken thing that he was desperate to fix. The proud part of me balked at the assumption that I needed to be saved, but for right now, I surrendered to the warm, tender press of his mouth, knowing that I would most likely never get to feel it again.

And then-oh.

His tongue, wet and warm, traced over the pulse of my wrist. I would not have been surprised if he felt how my heartbeat stopped just before it began to race. The arousal in my lower stomach had gone from a tug to an insistent, constant pull as heat spread throughout my pelvic region. I couldn't help a small sound as the tip of his tongue lingered against my skin; I hoped he hadn't heard it, but judging from the way his fingers tightened their grip, he had.

Tom raised his eyes to me again, and though the tears remained, still trembling at the edge of spilling over, the color behind them was darker and full of intent. I gasped as he edged closer, his knee brushing my thigh. Without breaking eye contact, he brought my hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the exact center of my palm. I outright moaned as his tongue began to trace that too, venturing along the lines and shallow ridges. Then, he kissed each of my fingertips in turn before finally letting my hand fall back into my lap. I felt his touch, his kisses lingering still, the tender heat of them etched into me. I searched for something to say, my heart and my womanhood aching in equal measure, until I felt an arm wrap around my shoulders.

"You know how much I care about you, don't you?"

"I don't understand-"

"Just answer the question. Please," he added, his eyes fixed to my wounded arm.

I sighed, then quietly murmured, "Yes."

"And you know that I want you to be happy?"

"Yes."

His arm tightened around me, pulling me against his chest as he swept my hair out of my face, kissing my forehead. I relaxed against him, still unbelieveably turned on but ignoring the steady throb between my legs. Like that was ever going to-

"Do you trust me?"

As he said that, one large hand slid onto my thigh, the touch almost scorching through the thin cotton of my pajama bottoms. I gasped, every muscle and sinew going rigid, and put my hand on top of his; whether to push it off or guide it further up, even I couldn't tell. His thumb rubbed slowly back and forth as he waited for me to make my decision, as patient as ever, and completely unaware of the battle being waged inside me. Every cell, every pore, every nerve ending screamed for him, craved him with an intensity that threatened to make me lose my mind. This was something I had wanted for a long time, had often touched myself to the thought of his hands on me. My heart stuttered and stammered in my chest, close to bursting out, and I had to press my lips together to keep from moaning.

But this doesn't meant that he loves you.

I knew damn well that he couldn't possibly love me. Who could love a woman like me, who couldn't even find the strength to love herself? But eventually, my body won out over my heart, and I summoned the courage to look him in the eye, weaving my fingers between his.

"Yes, I trust you."

The corner of his all-too-kissable mouth quirked up in a small smile, and something flashed in his eyes as he leaned closer. Was it gratitude? Satisfaction? Before I could read him properly, he'd pressed his hand to my cheek and drawn my lips to his. I stiffened at first, but only for a fraction of a second before I placed my hands on his chest and leaned into him, slotting my mouth more firmly against his. I could taste something salty; his tears had finally spilled over, running down his cheeks to pool between our lips.

The arm around my shoulders tightened as the hand on my thigh molded more firmly to my curves, fingertips sinking into my skin. His tongue slid searchingly along the seam of my lips, and I parted them eagerly, sighing as his tongue slipped into my mouth. He tasted even better than I imagined, sweet from the wine and the chocolate, a treat by himself. Gently, he took my lower lip between his teeth and tugged as his hand slid down to lift my leg and swing it over his knees. This change in posture caused my hips to shift forward, my torso leaned back against the arm of the couch as he surged forward to kiss me again. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I heard a soft moan rumble at the back of his throat as I gave him my tongue to suck on, my fingers sliding up to thread themselves in his curls. The reddish-brown locks were soft and coarse all at once, and I was reminded of the lambs my grandparents had kept when I was a little girl. I fought an insane urge to giggle as his lips left mine, his tongue darted out to savor the taste I'd left on them.

"Mm...doing alright, love?"

I nodded, my fingertips moving to his neck to trace lines between the freckles there. How often had I thought about kissing them? "I'm fantastic."

"Good. My distraction's working, then." He grinned and fluttered tiny kisses all over my cheeks. As thrilled as I was with this turn of events, my heart sank at the word 'distraction.' This was meaningless to him, just something to do to make me feel better. Not because he wanted to, but because he knew it would stop me from thinking too much. He was right, but for all the wrong reasons. As distractions go, it was perfect, but when he was gone, the empty spaces he left behind would be looming, dark, and hurtful.

Tom gripped the tab of my zipper and slowly pulled it down, opening up my jacket. I realized with a flood of embarrassment that I was sans bra, and that his attentions had caused my nipples to stand straight up. I tried to cross my arms over my breasts, but he stopped me. "Don't. You look divine," he rasped, running his tongue over his teeth. Pride flared briefly in me, but I tamped it down, trying not to let my hormones run away with me.

Of course he likes them. How many times have you caught him checking out a woman's tits? Tom likes them all shapes and sizes.

And to be fair, mine were pretty spectacular, even to my skewed perception. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to move it but didn't yet dare, so I grabbed it and pressed it to my breast. His groan and mine were a perfect octave apart as he gently kneaded me, his palm rubbing against the already stiff peak. I shrugged out of my jacket, as the air around us was suddenly too warm, and without being prompted, Tom slid the straps of my tanktop off of my shoulders, pulling down the fabric to expose my breasts completely. Lust rushed like a river through me as he bit his lip at the sight of them, hands cupping them like they were made to fit them exactly. Having never been fondled quite like this before, my whine as he brushed his thumbs back and forth over my nipples was a little bit more desperate than I would have liked. I leaned back, and he forward, synchronized as our lust swelled and darkened in our eyes.

"Can I kiss them?"

His request was low, husky, teetering on the edge between pleading and dangerous, and it sent fluid warmth rushing straight to my core. Breathless, I nodded as he shifted onto his knees, situating himself between my legs and hunching over me. Those soft, thin lips closed over a straining nipple, and I bucked, one hand clutching at his shirt. Tom gave a quiet hum and began to flick his tongue against the tip; just the wet sensation alone was almost enough to tip me over the edge. Swirl, suck, flick, repeat before switching to the other breast until I was writhing and panting beneath him, arching my back up into his clever mouth. Against my stomach, I felt the curious probing of his fingers as they worked their way under my shirt and hooked into the waistband of my bottoms. Playfully, he tugged at the elastic, licking a slow line up between my breasts to my neck. When he reached my earlobe, he rasped, "Still trust me?"

As his hand slid further inside, fingertips reaching the top of my panties, I gasped, "God, Tom, yes!"

"Okay." He sat back, and I gave a rather embarrassing whine, which brought a grin to his face. Licking his lips, he began working my pants off of my hips, chuckling when I raised my hips so eagerly that my spine gave a little pop. As he peeled them from me and tossed them over his shoulder, I felt blood rush to my cheeks. My panties were rather uninspiring, designed for comfort rather than seduction, and I found myself wishing I owned a single pair of pretty underwear. Tom, however, seemed to find no fault with them as he stared down at my core, not missing the moisture-dark patch on my underwear nor the way my thighs trembled under his gaze. When at last he looked up at me, I bit my lip at the sight of his eyes; the blue that was always bright and happy was now a stormy blue-grey, dark with lust and hazy with something else. It wasn't desire, it wasn't even need. It was...

Before I could start thinking too much about it, Tom skated his fingertips between my legs, over the damp cotton, smirking knowingly. "Wet already, darling?"

Unable to be sexy for even a millisecond, I shot back, "Yeah, well, whose fault is that?"

Thankfully, Tom had always appreciated my awkward sense of humor, and he had the grace to laugh. "Touche," he giggled, wrapping his fingers around my right ankle and hooking my leg over the top of the couch. My left foot, he placed on the floor, keeping my legs open almost uncomfortably wide. I felt embarrassment and no small amount of anxiety as he nudged my panties aside with his fingers. Was he going to fuck me right here on the couch? I almost wanted to tell him to stop, to spill the secret of my virginity before I let him do something I knew I would regret later, but I couldn't bring myself to form the words as his hand cupped itself over my mound, stroking his fingertips outside of my lips.

"Jesus, Tom..."

"You like that?" That bastard lowered the pitch and timbre until he was using his Loki voice on me, knowing full well how it made me shiver all over. "Do you like my fingers on your quim, my dear?"

A small part of me wanted to cover my face and groan at the weirdness that was my best friend talking dirty to me, but the way his tongue flicked out to wet his lips, showing a flash of teeth, was unbearably hot, and I gasped out a "yes". At this point, I was so worked up that if he did decide to fuck me right here and now, I would welcome it. Tom's fingers hooked into my panties and pulled them aside, baring my glistening folds to his ravenous gaze. I expected him to crawl up over me, to reach down and pull out the cock that was obviously causing the rather alarming bulge in his jeans, but instead, he lowered himself to the floor on his knees, his upper body between my spread legs. I didn't understand what he was planning on doing until he lowered his head, and I only had a split second to brace myself before he kissed me, the soft hairs of his beard tickling my thighs.

"Oh!" I yelped and placed my hands on his shoulders as he kissed me again and again, his lips making wet little smacks each time he broke away. Goosebumps rippled down my arms and legs, and I reflexively tried to close my legs and trap his head between them, but Tom was having none of it. He wrapped his hands around my thighs forcefully, pinning them in place.

"Keep them open." Something hard flashed in his eyes for a brief instant before it disappeared. "Just relax and let me be good to you."

I wanted to just stay still and let him lick me senseless, now that I knew that's what he was intending, but my mouth, as it often did, ran itself off before I could stop it. "Why are you doing this?"

Tom stopped dead and lifted his head, brows stitched together. "Is this not okay? Do you want me to stop?" He sounded almost panicky, like he was afraid he had only upset me further, so I shook my head and pressed my fingertips to his cheek.

"No! God, no. It's just..." I bit my lip. "I never really got the impression that you thought of me...like this."

His brow arched. "Where on earth have you been, love?" He leaned forward, crossing his arms over my stomach and resting his head on them. "I thought I was making myself pretty obvious."

I thought through the haze of lust, trying to remember him giving me any sign that he wanted me. Sure, we flirted all the time, and there was that one time we got absolutely shitfaced and he kept grabbing my ass, but I always assumed that that was just Tom. He was a natural flirt, and he wasn't exactly an expert on keeping his hands to himself. But maybe I had missed something. Maybe I'd been ignoring the signs because I didn't think they could possibly mean what I wished they could mean. Inside my heart, a spark of hope began to glow.

"Regardless, now you know. It's stopped you thinking so bloody much, and we'll also soothe that frustration while we're at it," he crooned.

Again, me and my fat mouth didn't know when to shut the hell up. "But why this?" I blushed deep; I could feel it spreading down my neck like wine staining a tablecloth. "I mean, why would you-um, don't guys-? Ah fuck," I groaned, hiding my face in my hands.

"Hey," he laughed, reaching up to pry my hands away. "Trust me, men that don't enjoy doing this to a woman are missing out on something incredible. This is my absolute favorite." I could practically taste the arousal dripping from every syllable he spoke, and my core gave an insistent throb. "And as I recall, you told me that this is one of your fantasies."

Fear gripped me; I didn't remember telling him that I thought about his head between my legs. Had I let something slip? He continued, "About six months ago, we got sloshed at that tiny little pub, remember?" I did remember; it was a dark little place, mostly empty when we got there but packed full when we staggered out, both of us having consumed at least a half bottle each of good Irish whiskey. "We were talking about our turn-ons. I told you that mine was public sex, and you said yours was the feeling of a man rubbing his beard on your thighs."

"Right, yeah." Now that he mentioned it, I did remember. I had only said that because I had often imagined him tickling my thighs with that beard he grew for Henry V. In fact, it was that image that got me off later that same night.

"I was cleanshaven then, for a part I was hoping to get, but I remember wishing that I had one, just so I could pull you into the loo and stick my face between your legs." He grinned up at me. "Two birds with one stone."

"You should have told me then," I gasped out, my fingers sliding into his curls as he moved back down over me. Tom chuckled, that dark, breathy laugh that I told him creeped me out only because I didn't want him to know how much it turned me on, before he rubbed his cheek against my thigh, his lips and the tip of his nose nuzzling against my folds. I arched and whimpered as he tickled his beard across the sensitive faces of first one thigh, then the other, laughing as I squirmed.

"I see you were telling the truth," he remarked. "Look at you. You're absolutely dripping." Before I could say anything, he had drawn the tip of his tongue up between my lips, not quite pushing inside them but enough to gather a good taste of my juices.

"Shit," I breathed, every muscle snapping taut as he did it again. "Tom, d-don't tease..." I cursed my voice for faltering, but I just wasn't any good at asking for what I wanted, even in situations like this where my want was getting dangerously close to desperate.

"Who's teasing?" He grinned and dove into me, his tongue grinding flat against my clit in slow circles, fingers sinking into the flesh of my thighs. I yelped and bucked my hips, raising them to his mouth as he flicked his tongue over my clit in rapid little strokes.

"Tom! Shit, oh God, yes! Fuck!" Curses and moans and strangled calls of his name were wrenched from me as he buried his face in my drenched folds, one finger massaging my clit as his tongue slipped down to wriggle inside me. I keened at the intrusion, one hand clawing at the couch as the other fisted in his curls. He hadn't been at it for terribly long, and I was already so close to the edge. His finger still rubbing at my clit, he lifted his head, his eyes hooded and dark as he licked his lips.

"Shit, Hope, you're so damn tight," he growled before diving back in, his tongue pressing to my clit as he slid a finger inside me, reaching deeper than my vibrator had ever gone. I writhed, pushing onto his hand as that finger twisted and fluttered inside me in perfect time with the flicking and swirling of his tongue. Another finger, and I gritted my teeth as I was stretched, the sensation bordering on uncomfortable, but nothing I couldn't handle. Tom closed his lips around my clit and gave a hard suck just as his fingers crooked to stroke something inside me that sent sparks shooting down my spine. I was on the edge of release, so close to toppling over into ecstatic oblivion.

"Tom, fuck-oh shit, Tom, I'm so close," I gasped. "Please, please-"

"Come for me, baby," he growled against me. "Fucking come."

And with a scream, I did, my back bowing in an almost painful arch as the pleasure that had been coiling in my lower stomach finally caused me to shatter into a million pieces, destroyed by his mouth and put back together with his fingers, still torturously curled within me.

It seemed like ages before I started to come back, collapsing bonelessly against the couch, panting and covered in a slight sheen of sweat. I looked down at Tom, expecting to see him grinning at me like the imp he was, but cold dread settled in my stomach when I saw a dark and unreadable expression on his face.

"Tom? What's wrong?"

"Hope..." He shook his head, as if unsure what to say. "Darling...have you ever done that before?"

"You mean have I gotten eaten out before?" I tried to sound flippant, as if I had this kind of talk all the time.

"Have you done anything like this before?"

I opened my mouth, closed it. Opened it again. I wanted to lie, to tell him that I'd been deflowered ages ago by someone with a cute butt and absolutely no idea what he was doing like everyone else my age, but I couldn't. Not when we'd come this far. Tom's eyes widened at my silence, as much of an answer as he needed.

"Was that your first-?"

"It's not a big deal," I interrupted. "I've never-I mean, not with anyone else, but..." I trailed off, already feeling the familiar heat of embarrassment creeping into my cheeks. Before I knew it, Tom was gathering me into his arms, stroking my hair, as if he was afraid he had hurt me.

"Oh sweetheart, why didn't you tell me?"

That was it. That was what finally snapped me back into my right mind. I pushed out of his arms and stood, pulling my tanktop back up to cover my breasts and standing on shaking legs to find my pants again. Of course he would have wanted to know; I was fine for a fling, but to take my virginity was asking more of him than he was willing to give. If he had known, he would never have taken it this far. He would never have considered giving me the best orgasm I'd ever had by far. He never would have let me hope that my feelings for him were returned. My eyes stung, but even now, I couldn't cry. I fumbled into my pants, mumbling, "Y'know, it's getting late and I've got work tomorow, so you should probably go-"

Strong arms closed around me from behind, folding my hands together and trapping them between my breasts. "Stop. Just stop." I could feel myself shaking all over, and I shook my head, disgusted with myself.

"You've done enough, Tom, just go."

"Not until you stop jumping to whatever conclusion you just came to and listen to me." His voice was low and soothing in my ear, his embrace inescapable, so I slumped and conceded defeat. Tom continued, "I wish you had told me first, because your first time should be in more respectable circumstances, not because I don't want to be your first." A whisper of that velvet-and-whiskey tone he used when he was trying to be seductive crept into his voice, and I shivered. "I've only taken a woman's virginity once or twice, but it was the deepest, most spiritual connection I have ever felt in my life. Before tonight, before I knew what I know now, I wanted so badly to have been the one to share that with you." One hand still grasped both of mine while his other hand slid to the curve of my waist, pressing me against him, and I gasped as I felt his hardness push into the small of my back. "I've wanted you for ages now, Hope. Since the first time we met." His lips grazed my ear, and I wished I could see him. "But you were so shy around me at first, do you remember? You barely spoke at all, and you went to great pains to sound respectable. You were kind of boring, if I can be honest." Tom laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest and against my back. "But then I saw glimpses of the real you when you let the veil slip, that vivacious, passionate woman with a big heart and a dirty mind." His chin dropped to my shoulder, his lips brushing up and down my neck. "We spent more time together, and I got to know you, your flaws and your secrets, everything that made you so interesting. There were some parts I wished I could fix-" his foot brushed over my calf, over the approximate largest grouping of scars was, and my throat threatened to close up "-and some parts that touched me. Your warmth, your generosity, your unending kindness. I saw all of it, bit by bit as you let yourself get close to me, and just as slowly, I realized I was falling in love with you."

Each word hit me like a small fist to the stomach, knocking the breath out of me. I had stopped shaking, standing unnaturally still in his arms, letting what he had just said sink in.

He's in love with me.

He. Is. In. Love. With. Me.

"Hope?" He sounded worried. "Have I upset you?"

I wrenched my hands out of his grasp and turned around, sliding my hands around his waist and burying my face in his chest. At last, the dam broke, and I almost literally burst into tears. Probably the wrong moment for it, but now that I had started, I couldn't stop. I was too busy bawling to notice as Tom guided me back over to the couch, sitting down and pulling me into his lap as I wept into his increasingly damp shirt. I wept to release the stress that had been piling up on my heart for weeks. I wept for my mother and the struggle I knew she was facing. I wept for my father and the grief that still twisted my heart, though it had been years since his passing. I wept for my own weakness, for my inability to find worth in myself, for the contempt I held for myself. I wept for Tom, because in confessing his love for me, he just condemned himself to quite a while of dealing with my issues when I wasn't strong enough to deal with them myself. Not exactly ideal.

Eventually my sobs began to subside, and I felt him rubbing a hand up and down my back, my head tucked under his chin as he murmured, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I should have waited."

Oh God, he thought I was crying because of him. I reached up and pressed my fingers to his lips. I was sure I looked a fright, but for the first time in a long time, I didn't care.

"Shush. You didn't do anything wrong." I smiled, though it was tremulous and a bit watery. "This has just been sitting in there for a long time." I pressed a hand over my chest to illustrate my point. "You are wonderful and sweet and you always know what to say." I kissed him, and this time it was my tears that salted our lips. "I've loved you for a while, but I never dreamed Perfect Sexy Tom Fucking Hiddleston would ever be interested in me. So I kept it to myself, not even daring to hope that the flirting and the late nights we stayed up talking and the times you carried me inside when I had too much to drink or when my legs almost fell off because you had fallen asleep on my shoulder and I couldn't move because I didn't want to wake you up-" I shook my head, getting back on track. "I didn't want to let myself hope that all of that meant something other than we were just good friends." I nuzzled the tip of my nose against his, sighing as he gripped my hips. "I was stupid for thinking that way, and I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," he muttered, his lips twitching. I brought my red-rimmed eyes to his, saw tears glistening his eyes, and felt my heart expand to press against my ribcage.

"I love you."

Tom matched me, whisper for whisper. "I love you too."

He dipped his head to kiss me, briefly and sweetly, before I slumped against his chest, emotionally and physically exhausted. We stayed like that, folded against each other and whispering our love back and forth for another half an hour at least. Before long, Tom shifted beneath me. "You should get some sleep, darling. It's getting late."

"Mmm." I nodded, lacing my hands together around the back of his neck. My lips brushed his as I murmured.

"Stay with me tonight?"

Tom didn't answer, but his smile was all the reply I needed as we stood and I took his hand, leading him back to my bedroom.

[asgardianintern]

The Sweetest Sound

A/N: A fluffy oneshot. OFC is deaf and Loki uses his magic to restore her hearing.

I sat back on the couch, relishing the mouthful of warm, sugared tea. Raindrops rolled down the windowpane, and outside, the world was varying shades of grey and green. Beautiful. Serene.

I just wished I could hear it.

I’d been deaf since I was six, after I’d lost my hearing in an accident. Growing up, I’d endured bullying and ignorance from the majority of people who met me. They assumed that because I couldn’t hear, that I was stupid. That the things they said wouldn’t hurt me. Jeering faces and pointing fingers followed me down every hall, across every playground, and into every classroom. Just because I couldn’t hear their ugly whispers didn’t mean that I couldn’t feel them. I thank heaven for the friends I had, the ones that learned sign language just so we could talk, the ones that would deflect the insults and defend me. The ones that would hold me back if I started to swing my fists. They, along with my family, taught me that love was the only way to approach animosity. That ignorance should be met with understanding. That a gentle hand accomplishes more than a clenched fist. I was beyond grateful to have them in my life, but sometimes, they weren’t enough. Sometimes, the oppressive silence threatened to overwhelm me, to drown me in the knowledge of how achingly alone I really was. Trapped in a muted world full of beautiful sounds that I was somehow undeserving of, that I had been cheated out of. Sometimes my anger at the injustice of it all bordered on despair.

That’s when he came to me. My dark visitor.

I can’t remember praying to him, but that’s how he says he found me. All I know is that one day, I had lost the will to get out of bed, to face the world that would only turn against me, and there he was. I was afraid at first; he was tall, dressed head to toe in dark leather, his hair jet black and his eyes vivid green, staring at me as if he wanted to devour me. I’d curled up in the corner, signing frantically that I was deaf, that my purse was on the dining room table, pleading with him to take my money and leave me alone. I only calmed when he sat on the bed, turned my face toward his, and smiled. There was something in his touch that soothed me, that gave me the sense that he wasn’t going to hurt me. He spoke at me, his thin lips looking soft as they moved in strange patterns that I couldn’t discern; I realized that he probably didn’t know how to sign. I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down my name and that I couldn’t hear, and held it up to him. His eyes-such a deep, mystic green-scanned the paper, and he nodded. There was understanding in the look he gave me, but there was a sort of sadness as well, as if he were sorry for me. We communicated back and forth on the paper for a while, switching on the bedside lamp so we could see our writing better, and I learned that he was Loki. The Loki. As in ancient Norse god of mischief. I’d been skeptical at first-I remember very clearly the way he laughed at my dubious expression-but he’d conjured a flower into his hand and tucked it behind my ear, grinning at the way my jaw gaped open in astonishment. When I reached for the flower to make sure it was real, I found a tiny snake had taken its place. It wound itself around my fingers, tongue flickering curiously in my direction before vanishing, and finally, I believed him. I’d asked him what he was doing here, and he’d shrugged and said he had heard a prayer spoken not in words, but in thoughts. That someone had called out for him. As I said, I don’t remember praying to him. Perhaps I was just calling out to whoever would listen, and he was the only one who answered. It didn’t particularly matter.

After that first day, he came to me once a week or so, always in the mornings, and always when I was at my worst. I still have the papers with our first conversations scrawled on them tucked away somewhere. After a while, he realized that the motions I made with my hands were a form of speech, and he asked if I could teach him. Naturally, I said yes, trying not to let it show how much I wanted to see those long, beautiful hands crafting words out of nothing. His visits became more frequent as I taught him how to sign. We started with finger-spelling; his smile could light up a city when he spelled his own name.

L-O-K-I.

I was blushing like a tomato when he signed my name.

R-O-S-I-E.

Loki was a quick learner, and soon he was signing in full, fluent sentences, his motions fluid and assured. The first time we had a conversation only in sign language, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. It was only a few days after that that he became my first lover. I really hadn’t let anybody get close enough for physical intimacy before, but with him, it was different. It was like he knew how it felt to be isolated, to be different. He understood me in ways that people had only pretended to before. It was easy to open up to him, to let him see the parts of me that were damaged. And once I let him into my heart, it was easy and a relief to let him into my bed. He was my friend, my companion, my confidant, my lover. He was so much to me, and after a while, it felt like part of my soul went with him every time he left. After almost a year, I had to admit that I had fallen in love with him.

I swallowed and snuggled inside my sweater, watching the rain rolling down the window, absolutely consumed in my thoughts, when I felt a tap on my knee. I looked up, knowing that it couldn’t be anyone else, and a grin split my impassive mask wide open. I pushed my sleeves back as he sat beside me.

Hey! I wasn’t expecting you today.

Loki smiled; he seemed almost excited about something, his hands hurried as he signed. I couldn’t wait. I found a new spell, and I want to try it out, if you’ll permit me.

I rolled my eyes, grinning even wider. You and your magic. As long as it won’t make me grow tentacles or turn me orange, I’m game.

His laugh transformed his normally drawn face into a boyish expression of joy, and I ached with the desire to hear it. Not for the first time, either. He drew up his legs, sitting cross-legged and facing me. I folded my legs, turned toward him, and waited.

Just be still. This may take a bit, but I think it will be worth your patience. I nodded, and he gave me a soft smile. A line of concentration appeared between his brows as he closed his eyes and began to mutter something, his lip movements small and hurried, forming odd shapes. Whatever he was saying, it wasn’t in any language I knew. He chanted nonstop for about a minute, then he reached for me, cupping my face between his hands and pulling my head to his, so that our foreheads touched. He continued to mutter; I could feel his breath against my lips. There was something so intimate about this, so special, like we were sharing something that no one else on this planet could understand. I could almost feel a bond being formed. His fingertips stroked the rims of my ears, played with the lobes, and there came an odd tingling sensation. Almost like the pins-and-needles feeling you get when your foot falls asleep, but without the pain. I gasped, but he held me in place as the tingling intensified, becoming almost a vibration. My hands clenched in my lap; I wanted to tell him to stop, to break away, but he seemed so insistent about this, so eager to perform this spell. It had to be for a reason. So I endured it, even when the thrumming became so intense that my teeth began to rattle. How many minutes had passed? Had time passed at all? It was becoming almost unbearable when it abruptly stopped.

Loki released me and sat back, looking concerned and expectant. I panted and raised my hands, noticing that they were shaking slightly.

What the hell was that?

Wait.

And I did. Then, it dawned on me. It was quiet. Not silent. Something was invading the silence that had pressed around me since the day I was born. There was sound.

“Rose.”

I gasped, and I heard the intake of breath, heard it rush into my lungs as my hands flew to my ears. They felt the same as they ever did, but…I could hear. I could hear! I turned to Loki, who was smiling gently. He said my name again.

“Rose.”

The most exquisite piece of music could not have sounded more beautiful than his voice. It was the sweetest sound in the entire universe, deep and smooth and rolling of his tongue like he had said it to himself so many times before. Nothing sounded better than my name on his lips, rolling out of his throat like it was the most precious word he’d ever spoken. I stared at him, taking in all the small sounds I’d never been able to hear before. A clock ticking on the wall. The rain against the window. The sound of the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. My breath rushing in and out. My heart beating so fast I could barely stand it. All because of him. He’d given me back something I hadn’t had for ages. He’d made me whole again. I raised trembling hands, not ready to speak, not even sure that I remembered how.

Say my name again.

He smiled. “Rose. My little flower.” I flung my arms around his neck, holding him tight, my heart so full I swear it was about to burst. Loki gripped me just as tightly, whispering my name in my ear over and over again. “Rose, Rose, Rose.”

After a meaningless progression of seconds, I let him go and touched his face, trying to remember how to move my lips and tongue, trying to tell him something I remembered hearing a long time ago.

“I…” My voice sounded rusty, croaking in my throat, but I didn’t care. It was mine, and I could hear it. I could use it. “I lo..” Tears gathered in my eyes. I would say this. I had to. “I lov-ve…you.” Yes, that was it. That was right. “I love you. L-Loki. I love you.”

Loki pulled me in tightly, and we clutched at each other like only lovers could, whispering our names back and forth. Right then, all the sounds I had dreamed about hearing over the years seemed unimportant, meaningless. The only sound I needed was his voice, saying my name, over and over and over again. He had given me back the gift of sound, and I was not planning on wasting it.

[asgardianintern]

The Man Who Swallowed My Soul

A/N: Oneshot written for missanonwrites, title taken from this song. Vampire!Tom, because damn. DAMN.

Tonight, there was a masked ball being held for the arrival of some noble or another, and through a friend of a friend, I had managed to snag an invitation. The masquerade was a raging sucess, with assorted dukes and lords, viscounts and barons in attendance, bedecked in glittering finery, for a night of carefree revelry. Draped in a flowing gown of midnight-blue silk, I danced and cavorted with all the rest, a mask made of indigo muslin embroidered with silver thread affixed to my face, concealing my features. The air was heavy with ladies perfume and intrigue, the excitement and mystery of dozens of masked dancers creating a heady rush of adrenaline that flowed through my veins like an opiate.

I had spied him across the room, staring with rapt fascination. Unlike the rest of the brightly colored fops and dandies, this tall stranger wore black, with very little adornment, save for his mask of matching black velvet. He was an imposing figure, however, his top hat adding to his already formidable height and his black cape flowing like wings behind him, brushing the floor when he was still. His piercing blue eyes had caught my stare, and embarrassed, I had looked away, only to find that he had vanished when next I sought him out. It was only moments later when I saw him again, closer this time, his eyes drilling right through me. I smiled at him, taking a step in his direction, but in an instant, he had disappeared into the crowd again. Disappointed, I accepted a dance from an eager young lad who couldn't quite keep time with the orchestra. That was the last I'd seen of my mysterious stranger, and by the end of the night, I had all but forgotten him.

Content despite my aching feet, I reclined against the back wall of my carriage, head bobbing tiredly as it bounced along the cobblestones. Tonight had been fun, exactly what I needed, and I sighed, smiling happily. The only thing I wanted now was to slip under my goosedown duvet with a heating pan and drift into sleep.

Once inside the house, I made a beeline for my room, peeling my mask from my face and rubbing my tired eyes. The instant I stepped inside my chambers, I knew that something was off. The doors to the terrace had been closed and locked when I left; now they stood open, the curtains rippling in the late-night breeze. There was also the acute sense that I was being watched. I stood still, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, until they could make out the shape of someone standing by the wardrobe. My heart stuttered in my chest, fear surging hotly through me, but I drew myself up, unwilling to show weakness in front of the intruder. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

A beat of silence; even the wind held its breath. Then he stepped forward, and I could make out blue eyes behind a black mask. Blue eyes that seemed to be made of moonlight. I knew those eyes. The stranger from the ball. Still remaining silent, he lifted a finger to his lips, advising me to be quiet, and with slow, measured steps, he began to approach me. My feet frozen to the spot, I couldn't have run from him even if I had the power to do so. Something in his stare hypnotized me, compelled me to be still, to let him come to me. Finally, when he was a mere few inches away from me, he reached out and took my hand, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to my knuckles. I could feel the chill of his lips through the satin of my glove, and a shiver skittered down my spine. Finally, he spoke, his voice like velvet and whiskey, low and smooth and dangerous. "My name is Tom." Still bent over my hand, he grinned, and I saw something that very nearly stopped my heart.

White teeth. Pointed teeth.

Not teeth.

Fangs.

Sensing the scream building in my lungs, he pulled on my hand and tugged me into his arms, pressing a finger to my lips. "Hush," he admonished me, one eyebrow arching. "It would be in your best interests to remain silent, kitten. I would hate to snap that pretty neck."

Fear closed my throat, and I nodded mutely to show that I understood. Smiling, Tom trailed his finger from my lips and stroked it across my cheek, his eyelids lowering in appreciation. "That's a good girl."

I closed my eyes as he lightly touched my neck, tracing his fingertips across each vein. I had heard tales about vampires, read stories about blood-sucking fiends in the penny dreadfuls I loved to purchase on the sly, but I had never entertained the notion that they were real, let alone that I would find one in my bedchamber. Yet despite his monstrous nature, Tom had been fairly gentle with me so far. I was afraid of him, of what he could do to me, and though I feared I already knew the answer, I whispered, "What do you want with me?"

Tom laughed quietly, the sound faintly sinister. "My little innocent, there are several things I want. Most of which involve undressing you first." A surge of something hot raced through me, but this time, it was not entirely fear. Immediately following was a sickening awareness of what his plans entailed, and the heat was replaced with icy dread. To my surprise, tears began to form, the world blurring into indistinguishable smudges of color. I didn't want to die this way, violated and humiliated, my body left crumpled and used like garbage. I didn't register the weight of Tom's hands on me until it was too late, but instead of pawing at me, he folded me into his arms, petting my hair soothingly. Calming me. I was too shocked to protest, too scared to move, so I hid my face against his chest, clutching handfuls of his suit jacket.

He hummed in my ear, tutting softly. "Oh, my poor lamb, there's no need to fret." A long finger slid beneath my chin, lifting my face to his. "I shant take what isn't willingly given." Lips like ice skimmed my cheek before settling in the hollow of my temple, chest expanding as he inhaled slowly. "However...what am I going to have to do to make you willing? Hm?" His fingers traced the line of buttons down my spine, circling each pearl closure as they went, sending tiny shivers through me. "I could compel you, pull your mind from you and make you worship me, but there's no fun in that." Those same fingers began plucking the pins from my hair, loosening my curls and allowing them to tumble freely around my shoulders. "And threatening you just isn't sporting." He gave a dramatized sigh, weaving his fingers into my hair and slowly walking me backward until I was pressed against the door. "I'm afraid all that leaves..." He paused and lowered his head, his breath cool and intimate against my neck. "is slow..." Kiss. "...agonizing..." Kiss. "...seduction."

My stomach clenched as he gave my pulse-point a soft lick, a quiet moan wrenched from me. Somewhere between his words and his kisses, my rationality was left behind, and I couldn't find the will to resist, to say no, even to give a token struggle. Tom's lips pressed to my skin over and over as his hands slid down my sides, over my hips, feeling the curve of my thighs through my skirt. Air hitched in my lungs as I tried to breathe, tried to regain my senses. I should scream for help, I should push him away, I should...

His fingers began curling in the fabric of my skirt, bunching it in his fist, pulling it higher inch by inch, and any hope of logical action was lost. As he raised my skirts, his mouth traveled further down, pressing to the shadows of my collarbones, dipping into the hollow of my throat, one hand rising to tease the sleeve of my gown from my shoulder. "Mmm, you're trembling again, kitten." Tom nipped teasingly at me before brushing his lips toward the line of my cleavage. "Still frightened?" His laugh was like the touch of feathers against my skin as the tips of his fingers danced just beneath the neckline of my dress. "Go on, then. Yell for help. Struggle. Fight me off."

I knew that I should. I really did. But all my strength had been plucked from me through his kisses, and I was helpless to resist him as he hitched my skirt around my hips, slipping a hand under the fabric and dipping his fingers into the band at the top of my stockings. He had barely touched me, his hands gentle and his kisses tender. I should have fought him, I should have run...but I didn't want to. I liked the way his cold fingers could inspire such slow-burning heat in me, as nothing else had before. It was wrong, and at the back of my mind, I knew I should be repulsed, but each misgiving was erased one by one as he kissed his way up my neck.

With a contented sigh, Tom raised his head, his expression calm but his eyes throwing sparks like flints of steel. "You do smell appetizing, my dear." His hands cradled one of mine, lifting it to his mouth. "Good enough to eat." A hot flush crept down my neck as he peeled my glove from my hand, touching his lips to each of my fingertips in turn. His gaze riveted to my skin, he turned my hand over, exposing my forearm, starkly white and vulnerable. "May I nibble open a vein and take a taste?" Tom must have heard how my heart stuttered, and he grinned. "Don't worry, love, I won't take much. Just a sip or two." I couldn't speak past the desire that still mingled with unshakeable fear, so I nodded slowly. A sort of morbid curiosity bade me to let him drink from me, just for the experience. It might just mean my death, but at the moment, I couldn't think of a better way to go.

His grin widened in triumph, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight that came through the open terrace doors. "Thank you, kitten." Each line of his body pressed to mine, effectively pinning me against the door as he turned my head to the side, baring my throat. "There'll be a slight pinch, but it won't last. And you'll be repaid for your fortitude." I felt his smirk like a crescent moon against my skin, lips skimming back to press the hardness of his fangs against my pulse. Tom took a bit of skin between his teeth, not biting down, just waiting, letting my heart race faster and faster with anticipation. I wanted to scream at him to just get it over with when my throat was finally pierced with a wet sound that echoed in every chamber of my mind, a sound that I knew I would never forget.

The pain was short, but fierce, like someone slamming a fistful of needles into my throat; nothing quite so nice as a slight pinch, but he was telling the truth when he said it would be brief. It only lasted a few seconds before the pain melted into something deeper, something exquisite that was not quite pleasure, but too close to tell the difference. It was as if...as if he were caressing my spirit. Running his fingers through my soul. It was a sensation of heart-stopping vulnerability that somehow both soothed me and set my teeth on edge.

Tom couldn't have been at my throat for more than a minute when he pulled away from me, a crimson thread unraveling from the corner of his mouth down his chin, his lips smeared dark red. His breath came fast, his chest heaving as he licked my blood from his lips, wiping away what his tongue couldn't reach with the back of his hand. He grinned down at me, looking as pleased as a cat in the cream, and cupped my face in his hand. "By heaven, you taste divine," he purred, inclining his head so that his lips were a fraction of an inch from mine, each word tactile as it brushed against my mouth. "Sweet and sultry with just a hint of spice."

I looked up at him, feeling light-headed and dreamy; whether from the blood loss or from his intoxicating presence, I couldn't tell. My voice quiet, raspy, just the barest whisper, I uttered, "So...what now?"

The vampire-God, how my heart jumped at the word!-grinned down at me, wicked fangs still stained scarlet with my blood. His reply was a rough murmur, a gutteral rumble that I could somehow feel down to my bones. "Now, kitten...you will have that reward I promised."

In a flash, his arms closed around me like a cage, and I was thrown onto my bed, landing on my back with my limbs splayed in a most unladylike fashion. Tom was crouched over me, his palms pressed to the mattress on either side of my head, trapping me beneath him. He hadn't taken enough blood to drastically weaken me, but even so, I was helpless to push him off even now, even had I wanted to. I had an idea of the sort of "reward" he had in mind for me, and with the pleasure his bite had given me, I could only imagine what ecstasy the rest of him could conjure. So I laid there, expectant and breathless, pliant and waiting. Tom merely grinned as I sank into the duvet. "What, no struggle? No token resistance?" When I shook my head, he chuckled, amused by my complacence. "You're an interesting little creature."

I wasn't quite sure how to respond, so I murmured a polite, "Thank you." This caused him to laugh loudly enough that I briefly worried that someone would hear. Without thinking, I reached up and pressed my fingers to his mouth, hushing him, though all that did was lead him to start kissing my fingertips, which I did not mind in the slightest. His eyes closed as he savored the warm touch against his cold lips, clasping my free hand in his as he did so. Oh, this felt so nice, almost tender, as if we were old lovers embracing in a familiar bed. I looked up and was surprised to notice that his mask was still in place, obscuring the majority of his features. Dreamily, I reached to pull it off, but Tom grabbed my wrist, stopping me. Tsking reproachfully, he pressed my hands down into the bed, his body lowering until I was completely smothered by him.

"Don't want to spoil the mystery, do you?" Grinning, he brushed his lips against mine, soft at first, then with increasing ardor, his kiss crescendoing into a scorching passion that flowed from his mouth to mine. I couldn't stop the tiny mewls and moans that he coaxed so skillfully from me, his tongue dipping into my mouth to taste them as I clutched at him. My teeth clamped on my lips as he bent his head to my throat again, lips pressing softly to the tiny punctures his teeth had made in me, the tip of his tongue sweeping across each little dip in my flesh until I was writhing beneath him. A strange, urgent heat was beginning to build, pooling in the pit of my stomach and between my legs; I had a faint notion as to where such a sensation would lead, and I was breathless to find out.

Tom lowered his head even further, his body shifting slightly so that he slipped down over me. Those deceptively soft lips, warmed by the heat of my skin, pressed to the tops of my breasts that swelled above my dress, his fingertips just ever so lightly skimming down the sides. I whimpered, closing my eyes as he kissed my breasts through the fabric of my gown, the touch muted but erotic nonetheless. Tom laughed lowly in the back of his throat as he felt me beginning to tremble all over with pure, unfiltered excitement. I wasn't afraid of him now; if he wanted to kill me, he would have already done so. Rumbling out a pleased little hum between each kiss, he made his way down my stomach, his hands reaching down to push themselves beneath my skirts. I gasped and tried to sit up, filled with sudden anxiety as I realized what he wanted to do, but he leaned up and pushed on my shoulder. "No. Be still, kitten." Tom smirked as I obeyed, my skirts now lifted up to my stomach, exposing my knickers. "Lie back and enjoy your reward."

Those cold, nimble fingers worked my undergarments off, leaving the most vulnerable part of me bare to his gaze. Embarrased as he stared at me, I tried to close my legs, but his hands prised them apart. "Do not," he warned, his voice low and threatening. I gulped, that nearly-forgotten fear crawling back into my heart, and let my thighs fall apart again. Those cold fingertips caressed my thigh, and my shiver brought a low, ominous laugh from him as his head disappeared beneath my skirts. Helplessly, I whimpered as I felt his breath on me, so intimate, so dangerously close. There came the lightest brush of lips against my thigh, so soft, so achingly gentle that I couldn't help but sigh. Then, fiend that he was, he sank his teeth ferociously into me, not hard enough to break the skin, but certainly enough to hurt. I yelped in surprise and pain, and he snickered. "Easy, my girl. Don't wan't to wake the whole household, do you?" I glared down at him as he bit at me again, less forcefully this time, sucking a bit at the skin. After a moment, the slight pain even started to feel pleasurable as he sank his teeth into me over and over again.

Then, his mouth moved higher, toward the juncture of hip and thigh, and my breath caught. I froze, not even daring to breathe as he neared my center, his mouth brushing ever so slightly against me so that I could track his progress. When Tom reached my core, he stopped, his lips parting over me, just waiting; for what, I didn't know. My entire body tingled with the anticipation of his next action, and suddenly, I felt something warm and unbearably wet slide between my legs.

My back curved as tight as an archer's bow, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a shriek of surprise and pleasure. I thought I heard Tom laugh again before his tongue retraced its previous path over my folds, wriggling between them. I whined and mewled against my hand, terrified that someone would hear, though it seemed that Tom had no such misgiving. Indeed, it appeared he was intent on making me scream as he flicked the tip of his tongue over something that sent a violent jolt through my entire body. Helplessly, I clutched at the sheets, biting on my lip. "Oh, Tom!"

"Yes, kitten?" He lifted his head, laughter sparkling in those ice-blue eyes as he licked his lips, his tongue sliding suggestively over his sharp teeth. "Shall I do that again?"

I nodded, my core clenching as he grinned up at me, moonlight glinting off his fangs before he brought his mouth to my womanhood again. This time, his tongue drew slow circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves while one cold finger worked its way inside my entrance. I shivered and tentatively reached down, winding my fingers into his soft curls, holding him to me. "Yes...please, don't stop."

As if to assure me that he didn't intend to, Tom crooked that slender finger inside of me, sliding it deeper to hit something that made stars burst across my vision. Pleasure as hot as liquid sunlight rose and fell like the tides in me as his finger fluttered in concert with his tongue, the movement causing such acute stimulation that I soon was clawing at the sheets, my toes curling inside my stockings as he lifted my legs over his shoulders. Whispered pleas and incoherent babbling tore raggedly from my throat as I tried so desperately to remain quiet despite his wicked ministrations. Was this how he intended to kill me? Destroy me with pleasure before swallowing me whole? As he slid a second finger into me, I became convinced that that indeed was his plan, shrieking against the palm of my hand as the pleasure increased tenfold.

Minutes passed. Or perhaps only seconds. They could have been years, for all I knew. The world seemed to fall away as he drove me closer and closer to insanity, to something I had only heard tell about but was desperate to achieve. Just as it felt as though that tight coil in my stomach was about to unwind, Tom slowed, lifting his head to watch me as his fingers slid in and out of me. I moaned helplessly, my body wound tight and aching. My fingers skimmed down his face, his skin as cold and smooth as marble. "Please..."

"Please what?" He smirked; he knew damn well what.

"Please...keep going."

That smirk bloomed into a grin. "You want me to give you release? Do you want to come?" He spoke this in a soft growl, and my body clenched around his fingers at the sound. I nodded fervently, and he laughed.

"Then ask me for it."

Blood rushed to my cheeks, though we were miles past embarrassment by now, and I could barely whisper the words as those devious fingers curled and then stilled within me. "Tom, please...oh God, please, I want you to make me come."

With a triumphant purr, he dove into me again, resuming his passions with new exuberance, tongue flickering like a flame as his fingers twisted, curled, and fluttered within me. I clawed at the sheets, as his shoulders, anywhere I could find purchase as intense sensation overwhelmed me. At last, my body reached the edge again, but Tom didn't slow for a second, and-oh heaven!-I was brought to release. Pleasure exploded in me, white-hot and tremulous, my vision darkening around the edges as I locked my voice in my throat, lips parted in a silent scream. Tom drew his fingers out of me, but kept his tongue pressed against me as I slowly came down, letting me ride out my orgasm. Finally, as I collasped against the sheets, twitching and breathless, he raised his head, licking his fingers clean. "Mmm...I do hope you enjoyed that."

Unable to speak, I smiled and nodded, my eyes slipping closed with exhaustion. I felt the bed move, springs creaking, and Tom got to his feet. Tiredly, I slid a hand searchingly across this sheets, finding his sleeve. "Stay..." I whispered.

Tom laughed, then bent to press a strangely tender kiss against my brow. "Not tonight, kitten. You need your rest." He stroked my cheeks, smoothed my hair back from my forehead. "Sleep."

And sleep I did, soundly and dreamlessly. When I woke the next morning, I experienced a moment of wild confusion. Why was I still dressed? What had happened last night? Slowly, the memories came back to me, and I sat up, stretching languidly, a pleased smirk spreading on my lips. There were sore spots all over my thighs from where he had left bruises on me, and a similarly sore spot on my throat, but it was nothing a hot bath couldn't cure. Ringing for a maid, I happened to look down and saw something lying against my pillow. A mask made of black velvet. I ran my fingers over the soft material, already anticipating the night when my masked stranger would come to reclaim it.