God of Mischief and Lies


Before she could open her mouth to reply, he wrapped his hand firmly around the back of her neck and stared deeply into her eyes. She felt a great weight on her chest, and her body seemed to float on the mattress beneath her. Her eyelids began to get heavier and she relaxed into the darkness crawling like mist into her mind. The last thing she heard was his whisper before all went black. "One week."

A week later, and Loki knew he had made the correct decision, choosing the girl. He couldn't keep her out of his mind, like a cur worrying at a bone. Constantly distracted by her, he delighted himself with new thoughts, ideas, fantasies. Her reaction to him took him completely by surprise. She showed no fear of him, and didn't give in to the escape that desire offered her, either. She had been completely honest with him, and yet, not nearly as forthcoming with him as he would have liked, mysterious enough to keep him wanting more, to keep him curious. And tonight, he would hear his little bird sing.

He wended his way to the front row, the stage dark. He could see the silhouettes of the musicians as they settled into place. Then... her voice. Like crushed velvet; soft and dark as chocolate melting, he felt he could almost roll it on his tongue, brush it with delight against his bare flesh. And not just her voice; her lyrics wound around his soul, filling him with fierce joy; jaded, honest, cutting deeper than shards of glass, and yet, filled with naivety and childish wonder. The music came to a victorious crescendo, and the spotlight was thrown on her.

She was glorious. Her hair was a bloody halo, her eyes huge and gleaming green in the bright light, her lips the same bloody color as her hair. She wore a black top that was as tight as a second skin and he found it irresistibly erotic, watching her ribs expand as she breathed in time with the music, the small gap of flesh between her shirt and her simple, green shorts, invited him to lick a line across it. Underneath, a pair of striped leggings pulled the gaze down her legs to a pair of green Chuck Taylors. He had to remind himself that it would not be appropriate to take her then and there, as she danced and strutted around the stage. She was a force of nature, a feral dream, a fitting target for the God of Mischief and Chaos. She brought her own chaos, as the small crowd exploded in a frenzy of joy upon her illumination. She launched into another song, the beat deep and strong. She was in her element on stage, being adored. This girl, this woman... She was going to be perfect.

He left a little before the last set, though he was loathe to miss a minute of his star shining so brightly. He lounged in the chair in the dressing room he knew had been hers for the night, playing idly with a single rose, still a tight bud, it's stem long and bright green. He heard the music cut, the crowd roar, and her thanks, muffled by the walls. Then, she burst into the room, laughing with unadulterated joy, a blurring glow of red and green happiness. He stood quietly, waiting for her to notice his presence. When she did, she balked slightly, but the happiness wasn't completely snatched from her face.

"You perform beautifully." He said to her, offering the rose. She looked up at him with those potent, verdurous eyes, and accepted it, her fingers brushing his for a fraction of a second before she brought it to her nose and inhaled it's scent. She was so small. He seemed to tower over her, and it made him feel possessive, and oddly protective of her.

"Thank you." She said, her voice softly hoarse from use. He watched her gently peel one of the outer petals out and stroke it softly with the tip of her finger. He noticed her nails were painted a shiny black. She seemed intent to study the rose, rather than meet his gaze. And now that she was clothed and on somewhat more equal footing, she seemed restless and uncomfortable in his presence.

"You thought I wouldn't come for you?" He asked, mildly amused. "Or, you hoped?" She gave a twitch that wasn't quite a flinch, and became even more studiously interested, only now with peeling a chip on her nail polish. "Look at me, little one. I'm not upset with you." She raised her head and met his eyes. An odd vulnerability resided there.

"I wasn't sure." She blinked, and broke eye contact so quickly he almost felt a physical loss. Then she shrugged and turned from him, pulling a leather jacket from the coat hook on the door and slipping into it. She zipped it partially and turned to him, letting out a shaky breath. "So... D'you wanna go get a drink?" Admittedly, he hadn't expected this, and was rather taken aback.

"Is there nothing you'd rather do? This is your last night, you know."

"I think getting drunk is appropriate then, don't you?" She arched a shapely eyebrow at him and opened the door walking through, then stopping and looking at him, waiting for him to follow. He did, walking slowly behind her, his strides long enough to match almost two of hers. He did not often follow, and he felt an odd, surreal sort of displacement as he followed her into the night.

The bar was dark, and music played loud enough that conversation had to be carried quite loudly. She sat up at the bar and ordered with a mere gesture. The bartender lined up five shot glasses and poured an amber liquor into them. Loki stood stiffly behind her as she paid, and took one glass daintily between her thumb and middle finger and downed it with an experienced toss of her head. Without looking around, she held one out for him. He hesitated, but took it nonetheless. She gestured to the stool beside her. He sat and watched her throw back another shot. He grinned suddenly and followed suit.

"Gods, that's awful." He said, and laughed. The whiskey was harsh and it bit even as it warmed on the way down. She took the third shot, and ordered four more.

"I know. It's the cheap stuff. But it does what it's supposed to."

"And that is?"

"Not sure yet. But I trust it to do it's job anyway." She toasted him, and took another. The bartender looked oddly at her, then him, and told her to slow down. She ignored him. "C'mon, you've got four to catch up." He put his hands up in surrender.

"I think not." She looked at him dryly.

"What, you Asgardians can't hold your liquor? I thought you were a god? Specifically, one I could believe in? I can't believe in a god that can't shoot whiskey." It seemed she became more verbose with each shot.

"You're baiting me." He said.

"Indeed, I am." She said wryly, before taking yet another shot. "There, now you only have three. I took one for the team. Go me." She stared at him and raised an eyebrow in challenge. No one had ever treated him with such irreverence before. He was amused by her, puzzled, itchingly curious. She was an enigma, and he found her irresistibly delicious. He took one shot, then another, and the last, meeting her challenge with his gaze. She smiled at him; a puckish one-sided curl of her lips. Her eyes seemed to glow even in the dim light of the bar. "You know... if I had to be kidnapped by anyone, it should be you."

"And why is that?"

"Because you're delusional. And gorgeous. Kinda perfect. And you smile like the cat that ate the canary."

"Silly girl." He said, lowering his voice and leaning into her. "Don't you know, you're the canary?" She met his gaze for a bit, then said, quite honestly:

"I'm too drunk for philosophical conversation. I'm surprised I can even say 'philosophical'."

"Celebrate the little victories." He said, rather snidely. "Perhaps we should stop, while you can still articulately speak five syllable words?"

"Mmmm. You're making fun of me." She said.

"Only a little." He said, grinning. He drew back slightly as she raised her hand softly to his cheek, then, inexplicably, moved it to cover the lower half of his face, keeping only his eyes exposed. "What are you doing?" He asked, perplexed.

"Even when you smile, your eyes stay injured." He flinched back from her. This was not a conversation he had expected, nor was it one he was going to wade into. Not now. Not ever. He took her arm and pulled her from the stool, keeping her steady on her feet.


"We've dallied long enough. Come, Midgardian. We depart." He pulled her out the door as she mumbled something sarcastic. A fine sliver of anger had pierced him. Slaves weren't meant to be observant. But a small voice whispered to him that this girl of ivory was nothing close to a slave. That she would never allow herself to be, and that even if she did, if he could break her, she wouldn't be nearly as much fun. And oddly, she did seem willing enough to come with him. He wondered if it was because she was just as curious about him as he was about her. He pulled her roughly to him, having no scruples about whether anyone was watching, and concentrated on the Bifrost, pulling them into Asgard.

They later arrived as his bed chambers, and he let her go and stepped away from her to gauge her reaction. She moved to the bed, the only familiar thing in the room to her, and sat on it, slouching in a languid manner that made her seem graceful and fluid. She looked directly at him with an intensity that belied the large amount of alcohol she had so recently imbibed.

"What am I doing here?" She asked. He repeated the same answer he had given her a week before.

"Whatever I please." She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed.

"Could you maybe be a little more ambiguous?"

"Ask an ambiguous question and receive an answer of the same ilk."

"I don't know how else to ask the question."

"And I know not another way to answer it."

"What exactly will be my purpose in this place? What use will my existence serve? Obviously, you went through so much trouble bringing me here, I hope it's something more than just witty conversation, which I'm sure you could find here." He stalked towards her.

"Your purpose will be just as I've said. You will be whatever I tell you to be. If that means you are a conversational partner, then so you shall be. If I tell you to pose for a painting, you will not move, not one single iota, until I tell you otherwise. If I hand you a pitcher and tell you to pour wine, you will do so. Do you understand me?" He was bearing down upon her now, so close, a hard breath would have knocked her onto the bed. "If I tell you to get on your knees and pleasure me, you will do it. If I tell you to read aloud to me, or sing, or clean, or just remain silent. You. Will. Do. So. Is that clear? Your existence will be to make me happy, to do as I tell you to the best of your abilities. Anything otherwise, and you will see yourself punished." He drilled into her eyes with his, expecting acknowledgement of some sort, but she simply met his gaze with an unflinching impudence, green eyes blazing with anger. It filled his belly with anticipation, the tension he used to get before a hunting expedition. She brought out such predatorial instincts in him. He backed away from her, but rounded the other side of the bed and sat down on it. He beckoned to her.

"Come here."

She came to him and stood an arm's length away, staring down at him defiantly. She would do as he said for now, but she made it clear she would remain recalcitrant throughout. He relished the surprise on her face when he leaned forward and unzipped her jacket and slid it from her shoulders, using the leverage to pull her forward to him. Her top was a simple black v-neck t-shirt. He put his hands on her thighs and pulled her to him, so that she was straddling him on the bed, her face level with his.

"Kiss me." He demanded.

"Why?" She asked.

"Because I told you to. You're intoxicated, why don't you just allow the alcohol to keep you without reluctance, or sudden twinges of morality?" She laughed bitterly.

"Let the whiskey keep me morally bankrupt, is that it?"

"You'll be among kindred spirits."

She studied him for a while, then her face lost the hardness of obstinacy. A subtle softness crept into her eyes and she lowered her lips to his. He sighed as she tentatively brushed her mouth against his, like moths caressing each other. He pulled her closer to him, slipping his fingers under the top and holding her by the waist. She gasped and fell into him, lips pressing deeper against his. She kissed like she knew what she was doing, molding her lips to his. She had her hands gently cradling his face, but when he crushed her close to him and slid his tongue against hers, she moaned quietly and tangled her fingers in his hair, balling them into fists and using them to control the angle of the kiss. She certainly could hold her own. He tried to force himself to temper his passion, quieting the urge to rip her shirt to pieces and hold her skin against his; until she bit him. She didn't nip, she bit his bottom lip, quickly and sharply enough to pull a gasp from him, while a shudder of electric pleasure/pain shot up his spine. Then, as if to rub a healing balm on a wound, she pulled his lip into her mouth and sucked gently on it, sliding her tongue sensuously the length of it, flicking momentarily at the spot where she had bit him. He groaned and abandoned all gentility. If she wasn't going to play fair, then neither would he.

He gripped either side of the v neck and pulled, ripping the shirt very neatly in half. Before she could say anything about it, he pressed his mouth against hers again. She tasted like cheap whiskey, but it was far from unpleasant, quite the opposite, in fact, and he explored the warmth of her mouth with pleasure. Regretfully, he pulled from her, but only to pull the remains of the shirt from her, and to lean her back a bit so he could admire her. She was curvy, with a small waist and wide hips. Her stomach rounded ever so slightly, and he longed to run his tongue into the tempting dip of her bellybutton. He licked the line of her cleavage; the bra she was wearing pushed her breasts together, high and tight. He nipped along the cup line, illiciting new noises from her. He rolled his eyes up her body, taking her in at this moment, truly unguarded for the first time. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back. Her red hair cascaded in loose waves down her back and shoulders, flickering with the firelight. Heat exploded through him, and he picked her up, her legs locking instinctively around his waist. He had one arm under her, supporting her, and another at the small of her back. She was startled into clutching herself tightly to him as she was suddenly airborne.

He walked with them to one of the walls, pushing her back into it with a little more force than necessary. She let out a small noise, it was not an unhappy one, he noticed with pleasure. She liked it rough. He lifted her by the thighs until her legs were wrapped around his ribs instead of his hips. He took another moment to stare at her, her pale skin glowing creamy white in the firelight, and he could see her pulse vibrating in her stomach, like a tiny bird's. He pressed hot, rough, nipping kisses against the skin on her belly. Her skin was indescribably soft, and he licked a line along the ridge of her ribcage, pulling a moan from her. She had kept one fist tangled in his hair, and the other one now gripped his shoulder, nails digging into his shirt and skin. He turned his head and kissed her forearm, tracing the shape of her tattoo with his tongue. Then, when he reached the inside of her wrist, he bit, sinking his teeth just above that small, fragile line of pulse, with a growl. She let out a sound that was part moan, part scream and he felt her body shudder, hips bucking against his chest. She liked it very rough.

"Fuck!" She shouted. He growled again, in agreement, pulling her away from the wall and tossing her onto the bed. She pulled herself into a sitting position, panting, and watched him. He stalked towards her, pulling a dagger from where it had been hidden in a sheath at the small of his back. He advanced on her with it, and she crawled toward him, much to his surprise. She wasn't frightened of him in the least. He wondered if it was genuine trust, indifference towards her own life, or the influence of the alcohol. Her body was immensely pleasing as she moved on her hands and knees across the bed, undulating with each movement, as if she had muscles in places she shouldn't. Her breasts were aching to be let free of their captivity, which was what the dagger was for. When she reached him, she crawled with her hands up his body, staring boldly into his eyes as she began to slip the first button of his shirt. He had put on a simple black tuxedo shirt, and leather breeches, fit for a casual night in Midgard. He stilled her hands. She peered curiously at him through her lashes.

"I wish to see you in all of your glorious beauty." He put one hand gently around her throat, her heartbeat fluttering, and her breath coming in shallow pants. He could feel her frailty, hold her life in one hand, where a mere curl of her fingers would extinguish it. He moved her backward a bit, bending her so that her covered breasts were pushed upward to him, like an offering. He slipped the tip of the dagger into the middle of the seams where the underwires met, and pulled gently upward, slitting the fabric with hardly any pressure at all. A powerful need raged through him. They were beautiful. Large and pale, with dusky pink areolas surrounding puckered nipples that just begged for his attention. He dropped the dagger beside them on the bed and kissed her fiercely, his hands sliding from her waist to her back, over her ribs, and he was once again reminded of how small she was. With his hands spread wide, he could caress the sides of her breasts with his thumbs, and his pinkies reached well past the beginning of the outward curve of her hips from her small waist. He could feel her breathing beneath his palms, and he found this wild spark of life to be painfully erotic. He explored her with his hands, as if he would feed from her with his palms, and he was hungry; oh, so ravenously hungry.

She needed him, god, she needed him. She wasn't sure when it had started. She'd kissed him, sure, but it had been a compulsion brought about by the look in his eyes, hungry and sad and waiting for her to tell him no. The first initial brush of lips had been mellow, though it had brought an odd fluttering in her stomach, but when he had slipped his fingers beneath her shirt, when his skin touched hers, a small spark set something alight in her. The insistent press of his lips provided fuel and she was set aflame. He kissed her like a starving man. It took her breath away, and she lost herself in the sensation of his mouth on her skin. She should have been upset when he cut through her bra (her favorite bra, no less), but she only found it made her ache crawl deeper, lower. He took his time with her, exploring her thoroughly, totally ignoring the part of her she felt needed him the most at this moment. He had cut her bra off, but failed to touch her breasts yet. Her pride teetered on the brink, she almost, almost asked him to give her aching nipples attention, but no. He'd take far too much joy in that. He had already gotten her mostly naked, much less writhing beneath his insistent mouth; he wouldn't get more from her.

She shuddered when he finally palmed her breasts, the calluses on his hands rubbed against those sensitive peaks of flesh and she arched her back, pressing herself ardently into him. He seemed to purr above her, enjoying her reaction to his touch.

"Oh, little hummingbird, you vibrate beneath me. I will have you singing in no time." His voice slid like velvet against her and she bit her lip and met his eyes, torn between defiance, and a desire so fervid she was almost maddened with it. "All you have to do is ask." She wouldn't. Not yet.

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byfirefaery© 84 comments/ 177128 views/ 369 favorites

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