Lady Alexandrie d'Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
coquettish_trees) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2021-07-21 12:10 am
coquettish_trees) wrote in faderift2021-07-21 12:10 am
Entry tags:
open | busy busy busy
WHO: Alexandrie, Benedict, Byerly, Gwenaëlle, yooou?
WHAT: lady about town
WHEN: wibbly wobbly mod plot
WHERE: Gallows, mostly
NOTES: will style match prose/brackets, lmk if you want a specific starter and one day it might appear
Alexandrie has not been this mobile— nor this tired— in a long time. In between stints sitting in the Diplomacy office taking minor meetings that don't require the Ambassador's attention and composing and compiling vast numbers of notes, missives, letters, she is delivering them by hand any time she can’t find someone else and make it their problem so she can take a moment to sit somewhere outside. Over the last days, since Byerly had taken over Yseult’s work as well, the white bell-shape with the red hair has become a fairly ubiquitous presence circulating around on the Gallows island, and one might run into her just about anywhere… and almost anywhen, as candles burn late into the night.
( Specific starters slowly appearing below~! )
WHAT: lady about town
WHEN: wibbly wobbly mod plot
WHERE: Gallows, mostly
NOTES: will style match prose/brackets, lmk if you want a specific starter and one day it might appear
Alexandrie has not been this mobile— nor this tired— in a long time. In between stints sitting in the Diplomacy office taking minor meetings that don't require the Ambassador's attention and composing and compiling vast numbers of notes, missives, letters, she is delivering them by hand any time she can’t find someone else and make it their problem so she can take a moment to sit somewhere outside. Over the last days, since Byerly had taken over Yseult’s work as well, the white bell-shape with the red hair has become a fairly ubiquitous presence circulating around on the Gallows island, and one might run into her just about anywhere… and almost anywhen, as candles burn late into the night.
( Specific starters slowly appearing below~! )
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I was worried you were rather hot, under all these skirts in the height of summer. I see now the error of my understanding.
[ That last bit lifted the fabric away from her legs, as opposed to the several miles of such he'd presumed were under there, but. He can marvel at the fascinating aspects of her attire later, Loki figures; for now, he has the not indelicate task of getting her out of them.
The corset, at least, is self-explanatory; laces are laces everywhere, so it is merely a matter of finding where they are tied together and loosening from that point. He uses both hands, again, careful not to dislodge too much of the lacing from the eyelets, running his hands beneath the panels of the corset to loosen it from where it's wrapped around her body. There's still material between his hands and her skin and so he leans in and presses a kiss to her bare shoulder before helping her take off the corset as well.
Everything that remains he knows and understands; the shift dress, and the stockings, and whatever lays beneath the former. Loki takes her hand, stepping around the pile of clothes at her feet, with the intention of helping her also step free of it all. ]
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The kiss makes her draw swift breath, pulls all her thoughts, and then she cannot remember what she had been doing before this moment; it is as if the day were starting now. He holds her hand, helps her step free, and she blinks dazedly into the shifting sea of Loki's eyes like he might know what she no longer did, her lips parted slightly in wonder, lost in him again. ]
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Loki can make a guess. Not exactly a stab in the dark, all things considered. Still. The hand not holding one of her own comes up to her chin, thumb brushing along her jaw before it settles at the very corner of her mouth. ]
Still with me? [ He asks quietly. ]
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She could disappear into this and if they don't stop now she will. ]
Wait.
[ It's ragged and breathless but she manages it; drags herself away from the kiss before darting back towards him to bury her face in his chest. To wrap her arms around him tightly and grip into the cloth of his tunic as she gasps for air, grasps for purchase in the world again. ]
Wait. I will not— I will not know it is you. I want to know.
[ She shakes her head against him. ]
I want to know.
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Alright. [ He takes a few breaths and counts, in his head, attempting to calm his body and quiet his thoughts. ] I want you to know, [ he promises her, because that is true. ] What do you need from me? Tell me, and I shall make it happen.
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She finally opens her eyes, reaching for his hand again as she steps back to look at the room. At the position of the light. At him. ]
I do not know. Only this, perhaps. Only sometimes a moment to find myself again. To find you.
[ A smile, small and helpless. ]
This must be so strange. I am sorry for it.
[ She pulls his hand to her lips, then steps toward the bed with the intent to settle herself, to settle him in her arms. ]
Come and lie with me?
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Don't be sorry, [ he tells her, feeling helpless in the face of the memories that threaten to overwhelm Alexandrie. ] Please.
[ He doesn't know what he could say to reassure her that he still wants, that moments to pause do little to unseat that wanting; it's like a small fire within him that grows with every breath he pulls in of her perfume. He doesn't even know if that is a useful thing to tell her at all so instead of trying to speak on it he nods, once, and lets her pull him toward the bed, toeing off his boots before he follows to lay down with her. ]
I've never... [ he begins, then stops, frowning. Reaches out to trace runic patterns against her bare shoulder. ] I've never gone slow. [ He imagines that is part of it, the devouring need to possess that fills him with insistence. He imagines that it is not very different from how her husband has been.
He imagines it says something about him, that he has no frame of reference for slow, for gentle. He doesn't want to look at that too closely in this moment, however. ]
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[ While Loki makes runic inscriptions upon her shoulder, Alexandrie reaches too; to run light unhurried fingers across his cheek, along his jaw. To smooth the hair at his temple and comb loosely through the rest. It is her own kind of inscription, that same conscious weaving of the things she has learned of him into the way her fingertips touch the planes of his face, how they feel in his hair. ]
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This is not just about him, is it?
Loki sighs. ]
I've been... [ What? Chaotic, yes, but is that all? After a while that starts to feel like an excuse as opposed to a reason. ] There hasn't been anyone that mattered enough to slow down by the time I'd talked them into bed.
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Thinks about living a thousand years and never once finding someone she wanted to touch this way. Thinks about living a thousand years and of a sudden letting someone touch her.
She cannot understand a thousand years— not the passage of its time or the way he understands it— only what it had been in her own life. How different it had been, how terrifying. How much she had found she longed for it even so.
Alexandrie raises to her elbow, so she can look at him with solemn care. ]
Tell me, if you find you cannot.
[ Leans to kiss his forehead, his nose. Presses her own alongside it to murmur ] I will understand, [ before she dips further to press her lips to his, soft and sure, her hand sliding back into his hair. Thinks of him as she does so; of Loki the god of mischief, a thing of stories and songs. Of Loki the prince of a world that once hung in the stars. Of him the exile, of him the man, and she breathes slowly through her nose. Stretches her thumb back so she can stroke it over the back corner of his jaw, and parts her lips to welcome him to her. ]
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He has to believe what she says. Has had to, this entire time. That she means what she says when she tells him that he could be loved. By her, specifically. In general. His eyes slide shut by the time her kisses reach his lips and he tries above all else to simply match the same energy she bestows upon him. To be responsive, but not demanding.
To give them time. ]
I would like to try [ comes out hushed and shaken against her lips. ] I would like to do something... different. [ Be someone different, for once. ] This matters, you matter, and I... I need it to be different.
[ He feels overexposed as soon as the words are out of his mouth, shoulders attempting to hunch towards his ears, but her hand in his hair is at least a little grounding, a little soothing. This, too, is something she might understand. ]
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Skin. She wants her skin on his, a grounded thing to hold to. Settles for the momentary response of wriggling closer so her other hand can join the first in his hair. So she can stretch her body to half cover his in the soft weight of it, fitting her leg over and along the inside of his. Whispers ] Yes, [ against his mouth, as sure as she can make it. ] Yes.
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He doesn't know what he's doing but perhaps to speak that into the space between them would be simply rehashing the obvious, so he doesn't. Instead he wraps his arms around her and kisses her again, before shifting his head so that his forehead rests against her shoulder. ]
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Shall we draw the curtains? Have candles instead?
[ Sometimes there are things too raw for the clarity of morning light. Sometimes there are things that need the softness of warm shadows. Or perhaps he would prefer to see her in this light; she doesn’t know. Perhaps he doesn’t.
Whatever he needs, whether or not it has a name, she wants with all her heart to give it. ]
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I don't want to hide from you. [ He doesn't know if that will always be true, but for this? He has to make different decisions. ]
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For a moment Alexandrie holds her breath and looks at him; knowing something starts here, not knowing what the shape of it will be. Speaks of her decision, of her want to find it out, with the tracing of her fingers down the back of his hand, her reach to touch the side of his face; says yes, says this, with the way she draws a line down neck to shoulder, finds and follows collarbone beneath the cloth to where it dips at the hollow of his throat. She lingers there for a moment, a bird hanging in the air before its dive, then leans to brush her nose against his, to slowly press her mouth to his again as her hand trails down to find and loose the belt that keeps him trapped beneath his tunic, away from being touched. ]