Author's notes:
Readers' interest had declined for this story and consequentially – my own as well. I love feedback and the lack of it was disappointing.
I have recently edited every chapter of Prophecies (this was prompted by me creating a profile in ao3), so if some of you wish to reread this fic – it is cleaner now.
I'm wondering whether these scenes are becoming too frequent... However this one had to be written – because the character of Loki demanded it. And honestly, this was the first time a story ever demanded to be written down in any other way than I had thought prior. After chapter twenty-two (Ritual) it just came to me that this also had to become part of my fic, it was just against Loki's character to leave him without getting a 'revenge'. I do think that you know what I am talking about and are aware that the rating of this chapter matches the story's rating (which, ladies and gents, is 'M').
This is not at all what I am used to writing, love-scenes out of love – is not quite my forte or my preference (if there are any of you who have read my fics from other fandoms – such as Mirror Bound or Possessing the Possessor – then you know what I am talking about). The main focus of those scenes there is mind-fuck (psychological nuances) rather than the sex itself. Alas love-scenes will not disappear from Prophecies (to the discontentment or perhaps to the joy of the readers). There should be at least one scene of the sexual nature of my preferred, heavy on 'psychology' stuff – although it is far from occurring.
Chapter twenty-six
Retaliation
The food supplies the two successfully adventuring Godlings had brought from Vanaheim (because there was little sustenance in the Primordial World) were enough to last them at least half a week, therefore they had decided to stay another day in the moor-like land of Niflheim.
In the same monochrome dyed afternoon (the time was deduced by prudent guessing) they were planning another languorous soak in one of the springs. However Loki had other, secret ideas in mind. Sigyn had completely let down her guard over what had happened on that altar in her ancestral realm, so it was the perfect time for him to act.
The Trickster was not aware whether at the moment what was to happen occurred as if decided by fate or whether it was initiated by him. The idea was his but as always it seemed that his Goddess knew the exact second it was decided. It did not really matter for she was unaware of his wicked schemes – and that was enough. It was completely unimportant if he was not the spark between them himself, and if the fire had caught flame because of something unexplainable. All he cared for was the 'now', and the 'now' had his lover as the epicenter of everything that made him who he was.
The God of Trickery actually had to try and keep his maleficent plans from seeping too quickly into reality or overpowering his mind – even if without touching his actions. He had to maintain thus so, in case she was more aware of his mentality due to their crazy and impossible connection. If she were to find it out, she would attempt to stop him, sway him in a way that she'd deem would garner the most wanted outcome for her. And that would make everything so much more complicated, it would ruin the surprise. The Golden Throne Heir wished her to know that he was not as tame as she presumed him to be, he would introduce her to his mischievous ways (with her being the victim of the pleasure of course).
His kisses were sweet (just like the lies he was so famed for), his touches innocent – so contradicting of his mind. But he had to, he had to keep his eagerness at bay, even if the giddiness itself felt that it had been left to ferment for too long. But best ploys were like wine – they needed time and patience to age to perfection.
The man's hands slipped underneath the young woman's shirt, cold and spidery digits dancing along her flesh. She gave him the purest smiles of a contented kitten. She kissed his neck (with him standing straight that was all that she could reach) while he explored. Careful movements rid her of the blouse. The actions of them both were not clumsy, they were fluid and natural (even if with hidden intent on one end).
His fingertips were trailing the exposed skin of her breasts, so beautifully fluffy due to the garment that covered them. He reached for her back in order to remove the colorful brasserie. The enchantments used to keep it in place moved away without much resistance from his probing energy and he easily undid the lacing that held it.
Once her torso was bare, his hand splayed itself onto her lower back and tilted her as if in a dance. The Vanir's leg was hooked behind his own in order to retain perfect balance. His mouth worshipped her freed mounds with tenderness. That didn't last however because he could feel her demand of ridding him of his clothing too. And while her quiet mewls were the best of music, he did not dare to fail to comply with her unsaid request.
Soon their clothes were history, moved by magic into their tent, which was well away from sight. The lovers themselves were on the ground that was covered in lush moss. The Lady was on her back but she made no motion to gain a position with more power over him – just like he wanted it to be.
The young prince broke the endearing kiss to look at her. They had never made love in complete darkness, but they hadn't quite seen each other nude for long in such lighting. It was always flickering dim light in darkness (whether that of candles, inside-burning crystals or evening in torchlight). The sky of Niflheim, where the sun-star/stars never seemed to set – was as close to daylight as they'd gotten. It wasn't bright enough to contort everything and blind, but it was bright enough (in a grayish kind of way) to leave no room for shadows to play. The girl noticed his gaze and he caught sight of the blush that was sign of her reaction to the sheer intimacy. She too glanced to his naked body and the flush only deepened and he felt only smugness and a complete lack of modesty at that.
Her hands were on her ribcage (thankfully not obscuring his view of her lovely exposed breasts) nearly, nearly but not quite nervously playing with a lock of her reddening hair. The color of her hair shifting, with a smirk he met her eyes to determine if there was any change there. And sure enough while her orbs were not the wicked, midst-passion mischievous green, they were teal and that was close enough.
With a purse of his lips the God of Lies allowed his hand to slide down her delicate torso, the pale skin shining in its purity. Her delicate stomach dipped under his slowly travelling fingers and her breath was held back. And like always, like always her legs were shut and turned in such a fashion that would allow very little for his fiery eyes to catch. No, no, no, spread your legs for me, love – he thought.
He knew that his watching and tiny, reserved touches were beginning to irritate her. The girl-woman wanted his loving, not his overpowering observing of her nude form. And the Lie God was going to give her that, not just enough – but too much of that.
His silver tongue in her mouth and her fingers tangled in his raven-black hair, his hand ventured downwards. It stopped just below her navel. The Master of Magic could do this later, but in case he'd be too preoccupied, too distracted – he opted to cast the spell now. He was aware that the female had ceased bleeding her moon blood and that right now she was infertile, but the God of Magic didn't like talking any risks (and considering the strangeness of the Vanir, possibilities were often endless).
He moved his lips to her neck and paused mid bite – remembering that despite how right it felt, he still had to go along with the lie. So the bite of the God of Deceit remained a careful nibble. Soon his maw enveloped the tip of her right mound, just beneath which her heart was beating steadily. He sucked a bit harder than he should have, but she was not alarmed into understanding his true intentions. The mewls were lovely and the same loveliness was held by the unhappy sound – the letting go of that hardened peak – inspired. He gave the same attention to the left one – not having it in him to deny the other of the loving.
Long licks were offered as if a sacrifice to Gods given by mortals and it did not matter that he was a God himself because he was paying tribute to the Goddess of Perfection. She was rivaled by none and anchored his Universe about herself, unknowingly – he added. The Godling's hand strayed beneath her form, clasping her neck from behind and forcing Sigyn to arch for him. His wicked tongue then made his way across the divine path between her pert breasts and upwards across her strained neck to the tip of her chin.
Her dainty hands were caressing his back as he gave his attention without respite. With strange glee he smirked as one of her nails – a broken one (most possibly that had occurred at some point when she had slipped on ice and grasped for things to hold onto blindly) had caught his skin, which was nearly shining in its luminescence. The young man felt so peculiarly probably because it was a noticed imperfection that didn't make her less perfect. Perfection (even with all its imperfections) was undisputed and who was he to fight against such a constant of his life?
He kissed his way downwards her lithe body, malicious in mind but not in action (not yet but soon). The sorcerer briefly wondered whether he should restrain her (magical binds were not difficult to conjure), but chose to leave her in a falsely calm state and not trouble her with things that could betray what he wanted to do without interference. He would stifle her fighting with overload, if he did everything quickly enough, then too much pleasure would leave her unable to protest – and he would not give the female Vanir enough time to gather her bearings.
Hands tickling the small corset of her ribs they passed by slowly and then settled on her hips. And he knew, he knew that just a second more and he would hear, see or feel her dismay in some way. She wasn't foolish so she would be swift in adding his direction with a possible intention – and he wished not a word to escape her, in plea or demand that he would stop.
The boy-prince's fingers slipped to her inner thighs so that he could pull her legs apart. And too late did she realize what he intended to do. Only a scratch born from panic landed on his retreating shoulder and a "Lo" that was the beginning of his name managed to erupt silently from her plump lips. That was all that she had pressed out because her body snapped up in a delicate arc as his devious tongue was dragged over the tender flesh peeking from between her folds.
The Princess's legs were bent at knee-point and they clenched powerfully, but his hands held tightly to keep them steady. By the motion it was easy to tell that her body didn't know what to do: whether to pull away and get away – as the mind dictated or to relax and enjoy the offerings fully as it wanted.
Loki lost his game of deceit and only brought his tongue over twice, slowly but forcefully. The miniscule pause garnered a frightened coo from his lover, but he held her in place as she tried to shift away. Maybe as a token of solace or maybe simply because of a whim, he pressed a quick kiss to her lower belly. He meant no harm and while they would enjoy this differently, the fact remained that they would both enjoy it (whether she wanted pleasure delivered like this or not, which was clear that she didn't, but it was alright since it was pleasure anyway).
His grip remained firm and disallowing even a hint of escape, so without wasting any time (in case she'd figure something to change anything) he let his silver tongue prod her smooth mound. The wet appendage was already elongated and snake-like in idea, as it gave her fast and thorough licks. This didn't entertain the God of Mischief for long and he moved lower still.
As the long tongue entered her insides, setting to probe harsher and faster than she would have preferred (that is, given if she would have any preferences concerning something she didn't like ideologically), the woman squirmed terribly. He didn't think that it hurt her badly (he was entirely too scared of that), but it had to be uncomfortable (also not something he necessarily liked). But all would be well since he was plotting on making sure that she would be comfortable for the entire ride, as soon as her physique would allow. The dark-haired Prince's digits were pressing into her thighs, having to deal with involuntary tremors that shook the Lady's body. His tongue was curling and moving to and fro swiftly, going against resisting tightness.
He had so much that he wanted to take from her, so many ideas that it was staggering to be focused into just one. Therefore he ceased before he was able to push her over the clouds (much to her misguided relief). The male raised his head to look at her defiantly and was met with her teal eyes that revealed to him her capitulation, it was as if she was silently telling him that she had had enough and that he had proven his point – there was no need to continue. However he thought – on the contrary, he was far from being done and what was the saying again, ah yes – all is fair in love and war (well, that had to extend into love making too).
The emerald orbs of his shone in mischievousness as he flicked a taunt peak of her breast between his thumb and middle finger – as a sign of victory. The God was answered with indignant anger emanating from her, but he was agile enough in action to escape her renewed wrath. He ducked his head between her legs and swiftly took the swelling flesh into his mouth. The instant and hard sucking earned a magnificent jolt from her physique and a spasm from her legs (once more under the control of his hands).
It was an obvious keening sound (a mix of agreement – her body's courtesy, and of disagreement – her mind's protest) that escaped the confines of the girl's throat. Alas Asgard's Heir wanted more – so he swirled the tip of his serpentine tongue over the key – her clitoris.
He sucked and licked (and thoroughly loved doing so too) until she fell and she fell hard. Her climax wracked her body in waves, with gasps and probably stars in her vision too.
The Lie God gave her a moment to cool (but no more than a moment), he needed her to remain moderately coherent – after all, they were just getting started. The 'respite' wasn't much of one, for he still licked her quivering flesh and gained slightly dismayed sounds when she was back from her high. He knew how hypersensitive she was, oh he knew that alright, just as he was aware that right now his attentions brought only discomfort with shocking jolts of overwhelming pleasure. And despite all that knowledge the God of Lies still pressed an insistent wet kiss to the puckered flesh, his reward being a full-body flinch.
He waited until she was back from the stars and somewhat grounded in her form, before he made his next move. Two fingers slipped into her core and he smirked at the clench her shocked insides gave him. The pace set was somewhere between perfectly slow and overbearingly fast. By the way her hands tugged at the moss and the way the female looked at him it was obvious that she wanted him closer. She wished to wind her hands about the Godling and he could tell that she thought that with this they would soon join. But what was she if not wrong?...
It took time for her body to adjust and she consciously made a tentative if a little bit messy buck. It was a sign that she was comfortable with what he was doing and would (in defeat) comply with his objective. With the air of an innocent misinterpretation (although it was anything but that) he changed the rhythm into a faster one.
Her form squirmed as his actions overwhelmed her and she made no more attempts at thrusting back. Quite steadily she climbed the mountain of pleasure again and crashed in her fall. The Goddess was a sight to behold: cherry red hair like spilt blood around her; fluttering delicate lashes like frantic dying butterflies; trembling lips allowing mewls to escape like last whispers and a body beyond her ability to control, spasming involuntarily – a marvel like no other – that was what she was. And she was his and no one else's. The force of his hand pushed her whole physique into swaying and he couldn't have stopped even if he'd have wanted to (which he didn't).
The transition from heavens above to earth below was complete, but the mischievous one did not cease. The Vanir beneath shuddered and groaned mournfully at the contact that was no longer as pleasant as it was counted minutes prior. His poor, poor baby let out an abandoned puppy cry, but if he would have shushed her – he would have been denying the obvious, he was not planning to stop soon.
The Princeling added his thumb to her torture, pressing down on her clit. His two digits worked relentlessly and sooner than before she lost her ability to stare him down in a begging manner. He was hardly merciful – he was cruel, uncaring even as without the bidding thought her head started trashing from left to right. Chants of 'no more, no more' and 'too much, too much' were heard in an illusionary fashion, perhaps that was what her psyche was occupied with or maybe that was only his twisted self adding.
Never before had he made her louder than her usual quiet exclamations when he wasn't even within her, but now she shouted as she climaxed. Her inner muscles squeezed his fingers and oh, had she messed with the wrong man. Unrelenting, he continued pushing into her weeping core, feeling all gleeful and triumphant.
A fall done right and over with, but he removed his appendages too soon from her tightness. Little experience the God of Deceit may have had with physical pleasure, but enough knowledge of his love's body to be aware that such a rough removal was nothing other if not heavily uncomfortable for her. And the cry that this swift and harsh abandoning of her insides tore out from her – was only a confirmation. Still he reveled in the idea of her core clenching around something that was no longer there and the emptiness that she now felt. It was so highly satisfactory because he was going to be the savior from her misery (although it was debatable whether his methods would not go against her wishes, lies – of course they would). The God of Mischief would not let her suffer for long, not long would it be until he would be filling her up with something once more.
Her chest was rising up and down in frightening speed, her breath heaving and her physique shaking. He could feel it, it was difficult to describe though, what power related emotions it roused from him – the shocks that travelled through his hands. And she was oh so terribly sensitive now, surely she would climax even quicker. The royal man clucked his tongue in appreciation. His green orbs traveled down her glistening sweat covered skin and he hadn't thought it possible for that simply ravish-able flesh between her nether lips to swell more, however it had done so and he knew how delicious it would be to indulge once more. Her physique had given out, bones seemingly liquefied, and if not for his grasp on her – the girl would have been utterly spread out before him.
Once her breathing was more of what it was supposed to be, through panic stricken eyes she observed him. His renewed hold on her thighs and the evil gleam in his eyes (all too familiar by now) told her that he was not trough with her yet. This time she shook her head consciously mouthing out little no's. Sigyn looked so helpless and so adorable to him and Loki bit his tongue between his teeth as he grinned fiendishly. Her teal orbs looked too big for her sharp-lined yet terrified face – an endearing image.
In blind fright of more pleasure than she could handle to be delivered onto her once more, she tried to say something. The bewitching woman only got to the 'k' of his name as it was cut off by a startled yelp caused by the Prince beginning to lap at the entrance of her drenched core. And was his little lover frantic, her form squirming as if with the dregs of the energy that remained within, trying to put up a fight but without knowing how to be rid of the pleasure-giving torturer.
His gifted mouth befell the swollen, engorged flesh once more, beginning to suck with such force that it knocked her screams into the soundless versions of themselves. And for a while her body remained metaphorically boneless with only slight shocks running through her that he could detect. All the boy-prince had to do was hold her to keep her legs from falling, but as she erratically grew closer to the peak he so desired to push her over, he began to hold her in order to quell the spams of her legs again.
He fantasized about her tangling her fingers into his black hair and pushing him forcefully into her – in order to gain her release. And he wouldn't mind that sort of domineering from her. He would fall to his knees for his Queen (such a title in his inner-world was only hers to hold) without questions asked. Alas she would not do so, as she found it too distasteful and wrong in some strange way. Therefore this kind of delivery of pleasure, given with the use of his mouth – was forever his to enforce. How peculiar it was, that kneeling for her was only a way to control her – and not the polar opposite, as it should have been by the idea.
It was a risky move to add more stimulation (she already clearly could not handle the load of it), but that was his objective. So the sinister male added two of his digits inside her. He moved them fast and harsh and sooner than she could bear, he carefully slipped a third in too. With the mindful arranging of the appendages, the vocal answer did not portray great pain on the girl-woman's side and the tightness did not fight the stretch much.
The second-born Heir groaned against her mound, trying not to break his pattern of suction. She clenched about his digits wonderfully, ascending sporadically towards the high. And her inside was so tight, so wet, so hot – and he... he was so painfully, painfully hard. It was so unbearable. Each spasm that gained power by the count, riled him. It should have been him she was squeezing so tightly, not his damned fingers! That made him suck at her ferociously and her spine bent in a strained angle as she kept crying out.
And the Asgardian God was so deprived, so painful that his mind offered an outrageous and shameless idea – that he would just touch himself, bring some amount of relief. He only mentally hissed at the ludicrousness of the thought. The Trickster God wanted her, to be inside of her – and he was not going to be petty in his desires! The anger that he felt at himself seeped into his actions – his fingers were rammed continuously into the Princess's overdriven core so roughly and so fast, the very knuckles of his hand were beginning to become drenched with her overflowing fluids.
She shattered in her climax unexpectedly and her insides grasped at his digits so hard it was difficult for him to continue moving them. Her high was fast in reaching but slow in ebbing, and this time he stilled his hand carefully – in echo of her dying clenches. The Silver Tongue pulled his mouth away, not daring to press a taunting kiss. He kept his fingers inside of her for long minutes, removing them only when her physique's negative response would be the mildest.
After this though, the existence of bones was nearly a memory. With the Trickster's hold momentarily disappearing – there was nothing left to steady her. The Lady panted heavily, trying to catch a breath in vain. Her eyes danced frantically beneath closed eyelids, the darkness of the abyss-like pleasure receding lethargically and having nothing to do with her shut orbs.
He leaned down over her and absentmindedly caressed her shoulder – the gesture was affectionate, but he doubted whether she registered much of it. When the woman came back enough to regard him with a moderate level of coherency, he did not find what her eyes showed him to be selfish. She wanted their loving to end here and their union itself to not occur at all – that was how far he had pushed her, overworked her so much. And if the young man would not have been so determined to see this to through to the end, then he would have forgone his own pleasure without much conflict. However he wanted to end their game the way he had planned and so he had no intention of stopping now.
As the Dark Prince pulled away she mourned his loss audibly, dreading the possibilities of what his clever and treacherously-minded psyche could spawn. He settled his weight onto his knees and took her legs onto his forearms, lifting her slightly off the ground. He arranged her most favorably and he could tell from her expressions and sounds that this wasn't a position she liked. It was highly exposing and made her feel extremely vulnerable – and he had chosen it exactly for these reasons (even if now just a miniscule part of him wanted to concede to her wishes).
It was ungraceful the way he had to use his hand to align their bodies. A strained hiss escaped him as he was forced to touch his hard and painfully-sensitive length. He thrust into her hard and fast and the connection fired into life as if it had never been broken at all. If this bizarre tie that linked them would have been more in the tangible reality, he would have described the joining moment as a myriad of blinding colors. His head snapped back at the sheer force of it and he couldn't help the startled sound that was wrenched free from the confines of his throat.
The God of Trickery felt no vivid pain echoing from his beloved, only pleasure that went both ways. And while she was still stretched by the intrusion, it was easy due to just how much he had agonized over her form prior. With great effort on his side – for he wanted so bad to just stay in place and revel at the tight heat, he began moving in an insanely forceful, outdrawn but quick pace. He hoped that he wouldn't spill himself from it – the sensations were just that overwhelming.
He continued thrusting hard into the Goddess without slowing and having to fight for breath more valiantly as the time trickled by. And a while later as her quiet cries went hoarser and hoarser – they went quiet in their entirety, but sounds still remained – not his though (although a groan here and there was lost into the audible world). With their position, as he pushed into her, the air in her lungs was forced out and created somewhat of a shout – although for a genuine one, the effort needed could no longer be supplied by her vocal cords.
The God of Deceit found a terribly sensitive spot within her and angled himself to abuse it. As the overload overpowered her – he was not left without effect of it, feeling the call-back had him drowning in a staggering amount of pleasure his own and otherwise. It was oh so difficult to not allow himself to succumb (and it wasn't like his will had much of a say against the peak, but if he were to off with it completely – he was quite sure that his own completion would be instant). Sigyn's core squeezed him exquisitely and only her insides had any energy to actually clench, for her physique remained completely compliant to his wishes. The waves of her high that washed him too were indescribable and he barely managed to live them through without joining.
When the clouds were a second away left behind in the past, he allowed himself to slow down and thrust shallowly – because he was not sure if he could go on with that unimaginable concentration requiring rhythm. The God of Mischief also ceased his onslaught of hits into that sweet-spot, trying to lessen the amount of feedback she gave him.
Awhile later her state was still not stable after the climax, but his was enough so, therefore he resumed his previous pace. The Godling was infinitively glad for the terrain that lied beneath them. The moss was so soft and plush, and it seemed almost as if they were making love on a waterbed. But despite the comparison it was good that it was not water just beneath the moss because it didn't slosh and jumped back very softly. If this would have been normal, hard ground – then with this force that he used on his love, he would have harmed her greatly.
The girl's core was so wet that it retracted a lot of the friction – and that was not a bad thing at all. His roughness would have definitely torn her up – if she wouldn't have been put through such a trial of pleasure before. Pain would have been a certainty and if not – well then, he wouldn't have even lasted as long as an ordinary Aesir could.
If he wouldn't feel her (her sensations) then the sight before him would have been terrifying – like out of the worst of his nightmares, he wouldn't have managed to continue even if she would have told him that she was alright. The boy-prince's lover had tears streaming down her face and if he would not have known exactly why – the other summaries would have been horrendous. But everything that so perfectly depicted the image of great pain and agony – was actually anything but, it was pleasure that had forced her to cry. And he would never have thought that of all things – pleasure could make one cry, although she definitely wasn't shedding the beautiful, crystal tears voluntarily.
Loki didn't stop until he was forced to stop suddenly. Pleasure exploded in his every nerve, blooming in vicious ecstasy (but it wasn't too bad that it was so much more sooner than he had ever lasted when making love – because there had been enough pleasure, too much of it actually). He spilled himself inside the Vanir. The burst of cold liquid in her burning core and the jerky, uncontrolled and rough movement had her insides seizing up and she followed in her high quickly after his had begun.
With his whole body shaking, he barely managed to hold himself in the position. The pleasure had been so unexpected and as if in payback (and that idea made him press out a vague hope that what he had done would not cause a vicious cycle of get-backs between them) her physical self still clenched about his uncomfortably sensitive, flaccid length.
The God of Lies still had the mind to actually lower her down because if he would have collapsed like this – his weight would have definitely hurt the female beneath. Their connection still thrived although it echoed a strange blackness from her end, which threatened to take him over as well. The movement made him slip out of the heat, but he wasn't coherent enough to realize how much he missed it.
He should have rolled to his side but he did not manage to do so, as he could no longer hold himself up and lightly fell onto the Lady. He knew that he was heavy, but the following thought was too fogged to make out. And the last thing he knew – was that he didn't know whether he had passed out like she had or fallen asleep so suddenly – and it didn't really matter because the darkness felt deserved and blessed.