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Loki

"I don't believe in hard work when a false face and a good line of bullshit can do so much more."

0 · 999 views · located in San Francisco

a character in “Awakenings”, as played by Cloud

Description



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GOD
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F U L LXN A M E
        Loki Laufeyson

A L I A S
        Lukas SkΓΈyer

N I C K N A M E S
        Loptr, HveΓ°rungr, Liesmith, Trickster, Rogue

A G E
        Appears mid-late twenties
        "Try several millennia."

R O L E
        Loki, Norse God of Mischief

L O Y A L T Y
        The Trickster's Followers,
        "Primarily to myself"



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D I V I N I T Y

        There is much to be said on the Norse Trickster God, though if you ask him yourself you will be greeted with twisting half-truths, subtle embellishments, and outright lies. He is the son of two giants, FΓ‘rbauti and Laufey, though even this is disputed at times. As a God his relationship with the Norse Pantheon varies. Sometimes Loki assists them, while at other times he causes mayhem. He has stolen, lied, injured, and cheated, while also mending, crafting, and rescuing. His talents, as befits a Trickster God, lie in mischief and sowing chaos. A talented shapeshifter, an adapt hand at magic, and possessing an in-born ability to read people, Loki is a natural at deception, which he has made full use of for millennia.



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X X X XH E I G H TX X X X X X X X X X X X X XW E I G H T
X X X X X5 ft 11 in or 180 cm X X X X X X X X X X X X X 172 lbs or 78 kg



X X X XH A I RXC O L O U RX X X X X X X X XE Y EXC O L O U R
X X X X XRusset BrownX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XPale Blue



X X X XG E N E R A LXA P P E A R A N C E
X X X X XIt is not always easy to pinpoint Loki Laufeyson's appearance, given his propensity to shift form as if pleases him. The mischievous god has been known to take any shape that catches his eye, from an innocuous salmon, a haggard elder, to a buzzing fly. As the Gods' powers have dwindled his own shifting has become more limited, which offers many the comfort of knowing that any passing animal is not the devilish god himself listening to their conversation. For many it also gives a much better idea of what the trickster really looks like, though there will always be some variables when dealing with him. Loki is of average build, stands slightly above mean height, and weighs what you would expect for a man of his musculature. Fair skinned, sharp eyed, and with a smile that can cut and warm in the same breath, the god has an appearance about him that both warns and welcomes. He has been considered handsome more than once, a combination of well sculptured cheekbones, thick brown hair, and large expressive eyes. The confident swagger with which he holds himself also emphasises his appeal.

X X X X XIn terms of clothing the Trickster's style seems to shift with his mood. Generally well put together, he's most often seen in tidy, fashionable outfits that compliment his shape. Suits, tidy jackets, suave shoes and so forth appear to be a staple of his, though he has days, weeks even, when eccentricity creeps in too. One day you might find him in Gucci, the next in a sombrero from the local charity store.



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Q U I R K S
        Has memorised a plethora of dirty bar songs and will sing them when the mood takes hold; picks aliases for himself that amuse him [Skoyer means Rogue in Norwegian]; whistles when happy

T A L E N T S
        Skilled in deception; extremely talented liar; perceptive; persuasive speaker; has an excellent poker face; knows every sleight-of-hand under the sun; wonderful dancer; master of disguise; confident

F L A W S
        Lies, constantly; unpredictable; doesn't take much seriously; untrustworthy; steals frequently; has little regard for others outside of what they can do for him; sarcastic

F E A R S
        What does a trickster fear, but to have his greatest ruse of all revealed to the world?

S E C R E T S
        The god has as many secrets buried in his head as a library has books. Asking for one secret is like asking a tree for its favourite leaf, there's just too many to pick. These secrets belong both to himself and to many of his acquaintances, allies and enemies alike. Loki isn't adverse to revealing secrets when he thinks it might advantage himself, though there is one undisclosed titbit that he has been holding particularly close for some time. What this secret is, is unknown to any but himself, though it is quite the kicker if he does say so himself.



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P E R S O N A L I T Y
If Loki Laufeyson came with a warning label, it would advise the utmost caution be taken in any dealings with the god. Loki is the very definition of what a mocking thief should be; a coalescence of witty sarcasm, sharp intellect, constant dishonesty, topped with a complete disregard for anyone but himself. Almost everything he does, is done for his own sake. There is little sacred that the god will not taint in an attempt to save his own skin or further his own plans. Truth comes rarely from this silver-tongued god's lips, and when it does, best to take care, for it is often laced with hidden intent. Loki gives little freely, and you can guarantee that anything with the appearance of a gift, even if it is beneficial to the receiver, will in some way assist the Trickster too.

Yet, despite it all the god is not friendless. His charisma and never-ending confidence seem to attract similar souls. While trust and loyalty are words rarely associated with Laufeyson, there are certain perks that come with being in his inner circle. He rewards his friends, or followers, when appropriate, is far less antagonistic towards those he considers equals, and might, on occasion, lift a finger to help one should they be in need. His humour too becomes much more bearable. Loki will manipulate and play with those he dislikes, or simply feels like taunting, to his heart's desire. It isn't uncommon to find his rivals fuming in frustration at Loki's apparent inability to give a straight answer. Those are the lucky ones. Against those who have truly earned the label 'enemy', the god can become exceptionally antagonistic, revealing the dangerous, brutal side behind the snarky grin.

He is an unpredictable genius who thrives off the chaos he creates. Trying to outsmart him is a wasted effort, for the joking god may seem nonchalant, but he's already several steps ahead and moving in for checkmate. So, handle with care, or you will get burnt.



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A S L E E P
      While others gave themselves to premature slumber centuries ago, Loki only let sleep take him a mere thirty years ago.

A W A K E
      Loki has been awake for three years. Should it surprise anyone to learn that Loki woke well before the others?

H I S T O R Y
      Loki Laufeyson came to America in much the same way as any other god, in the hearts and minds of his loyal followers. Only, his believers were not proud Vikings seeking adventure and new lands, but a ship of Norse pirates pushed off course by a violent storm. Scoundrels, murderers, thieves, and worse landed in a quiet spit of land, hauling their limping ships out of the breaking waves. They eventually died of sickness or at the blades of the locals, and Loki was left to wander his new home. Time moved on, new gods came and old gods died. The land was cultivated, wars were fought, battles lost and won, and, wherever mischief occurred you were sure to find Loki not far from it. He thrived in the unpredictable nature of the early settlers' days, helped influence the biggest battles in the civil war, and delighted in creating chaos wherever he walked. His name was cursed by the do-gooders, while his steps revered by those who called his name in the darkest hour, to help in some misdeed. Whether praised or feared, he was remembered, and that was all that mattered at the time. It fed his powers and gave him strength.

      But, we all know that time is a cruel mistress and mortals are particularly prone to falling prey to her inescapable grip. His followers died and with them their belief in his existence. His name was not lost, his deeds still remembered, but as the years passed the tales of his exploits moved from fact, to myth. For a time this was enough to feed him, but as worshippers died his powers waned and he found himself living on petty ruses, tricking unsuspecting humans out of their coin so he could live. Yet he never wanted for anything and always landed on his feet, no matter the circumstance. When other gods began calling for self-induced slumber he was initially opposed. He was, after all, one of the lucky few whose name was still relatively well known - even if it was, later, just as a comic book character. Eventually a mixture of curiosity and self-preservation got the better of the god and he succumbed, falling to 'sleep' much later than his peers.

      As a human he hung on the edges of society, many of his traits carrying over so that his human self was in and out of prison more than many might have thought possible. Yet, where other's slumbered for centuries, his sleep only lasted three decades. He woke on a blustery morning to find his powers only slightly restored, but a brilliant plan forming in his devious mind. He's had two years of uninterrupted scheming to lay the foundations of his plan. In the last year his travels have taken him across the country in search of the deities he feels breaking through their slumber. While not all have trusted him, he has persuaded more than a few to join him. Even as a force grows against him the god can only smile and laugh, as if the coming battle is everything he had planned for, as if the chaos itself is giving him strength. And, who is to say that it's not?



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D I A L O G U EXC O L O U R:
X#7e7e85

F A C EXC L A I M:
Sebastian Stan

P O R T R A Y E DXB Y:
Cloud

I N S P I R A T I O N
Inspiration for the aesthetics of this sheet comes from
ibecameinsane and Aurei.

So begins...

Loki's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: MΓ³rrΓ­gan Character Portrait: Kaito Wakahisa Character Portrait: Loki Character Portrait: Eopsin Character Portrait: SΓ³l Character Portrait: Aonghus
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#, as written by Cloud


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Date:
1st February,
2015


Time:
11.59am


Where:
San Francisco


Weather:
16˚C | 61˚F
Partly Cloudy
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    The mortal residents of San Francisco city were unaware that their city was about to play host to a battle of divine proportions. In fact, one could argue that the gods themselves were unaware of the approaching battle, especially those gods who still considered themselves human. Yet, they are the ones that have brought this war to the streets of the Foggy City, albeit unknowingly.

    Drawn by the feeling that gods are to be found in the city, various factions are arriving in an attempt to wake and persuade these sleeping deities to join their side. There is Loki and his 'friends', whose purpose is largely unknown. Opposing them are those deities who claim allegiance to The Gods as a whole.

    We begin at midday on the 1st day of February. The Trickster and his followers are to be found in the penthouse of a downtown hotel, paid for no doubt through some trickery of the Norse God. The Awakened gods standing against Loki have chosen to meet at Union Square, a central hub of the city and to their minds no better place to start their search. As for the slumbering, they could be anywhere. In a city of over 800,000 finding a sleeping god will be no simple task.




Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Loki Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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#, as written by Cloud


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L O K I
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"His lips twisted into a scarred smile
and the embers danced in the
shadows of his eyes."

-Neil Gaiman, American Gods

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"Will that be all, sir?" The tentative voice of the bellhop almost echoes in the lofty hotel penthouse, while his gleaming black shoes squeak across the marble floor as he follows after the man he's just shown to The Heritage's most expensive suite.

"Whiskey!" The voice is softly accented, European perhaps, though the bellhop is unable to place exactly where. There's enough of an American drawl that the man could easily pass as American should he alter his inflections slightly, drag out particular vowels and cut short several consonants. In fact this particular man has been doing just that for the past few centuries on and off, passing himself as an American, born and bred. And why not? He arrived in America before many of the country's founding families called it home. He's seen wars ravage lands, cities founded and lost, heroes born and sacrificed, and he's even helped shape the chaotic outcome of some events. What's not to love about this great country? The decadence, the greed, the constant need of her citizens to prove their worth? It's everything and more that Loki Lauseyson could ever have dreamed of, though he tries not to dwell too long on the better aspects of the country. Who needs altruism when you thrive on blinding chaos?

"I beg your pard-..."

"I'm expecting company." Loki turns on his heel, coming to a stop in the expansive lounge with such little warning that the bellhop almost skids into him. Loki bends slightly at the waist, and the bellhop is offered another close view of those startling pale blue eyes which almost seem to glow with mischievous delight. A single look from those eyes is enough to have anyone double checking that their wallet is still in their pocket, only to be utterly distracted moments later by the seemingly warm smile that spreads across the Norseman's face.

"Get me your most expensive bottle of whiskey." The bellhop nods, confirming that he has understood the instructions and begins to back out of the room. "Oh, and make it Irish!" Loki adds, a devilish smile on his face appearing at his private joke. The bellhop bows, almost unconsciously, as he leaves, only to question why he showed such diffidence to the intriguing man when he's out of sight.

Loki Laufeyson, or Lukas SkΓΈyer as his identification documents claim him to be, meanders out of the lounge and onto the spacious balcony attached to the suite. Up here the blustering wind brings the temperature down by a few degrees, though it is nothing to the frozen winters of his childhood, and the mild chill is worth it for any slight advantage. The height of the balcony offers Loki an unparalleled view of the surrounding streets. As he leans against the railings and glances down at the street, he's able to track pedestrians and vehicles as they go about their daily business. His ever-present smirk widens as he watches a fight break out across the road between a taxi driver and his disgruntled customer, his eyes gleam as a thief snatches a purse from a careless woman, and he outright laughs as a small dog runs across the busy road, causing cars to swerve to avoid colliding with the four-legged pet. Although Loki's worshippers have all but vanished from today's world, there is enough chaos in these sprawling cities to sustain him until a better source of power can be obtained.

Turning away from the view, Loki leans his back against the railing as his sharp eyes turn to rove across the view of the penthouse suite. This had been a particularly rewarding ruse, securing the expensive set of rooms as a temporary base of operations. It was a trick he had employed across the country, a sort of verbal sleight-of-hand that usually ended in being put up in the grand suite with a bill that would be charged to the hotel. Loki doubted the hotel staff would discover the scam until well after he and his friends departed, if they even discovered the truth, which Loki highly doubted in the first place. He'd even given them his current alias, a sure sign of his arrogance.

Using his Alias will also allow any of his arriving guests to be brought directly to his room. With the number of rooms in the suite he could easily house a small army of defector gods, though the particular goddess he's waiting for is worth an army all by herself. The way Morrigan carves her way through any situation is most invigorating, and though the two have never seen eye to eye, Loki is pleased to have her on his side.

A knock on the door pulls his attention from his thoughts and towards the bellhop, who is peeping his head out onto the balcony. The young boy scuffles forward, grasping a large glass bottle of Irish Whiskey in his hands.

"Mr Skoyer, shall I put the alcohol by the bar?" The bellhop asks, glancing back inside at the bar sitting adjacent to the lounge. Loki pushes himself off the railing, setting his feet towards the mortal as he shakes his head,

"No, I'll take that off your hands." Loki replies, picking the bottle of spirits from the bellhop. Loki flashes a grin at the human, one of boundless humour and concerning deceit. "You've done an excellent job, go put up your feet and grab a drink yourself. On me." Loki continues, pulling a note from his pocket and appearing to tuck it into the bellhop's coat pocket. Then, with a swift hand, Loki turns the hotel staff member on his heel and pushes him towards the exit. As the bellhop exits the suite Loki saunters inside towards the bar, a smirk on his face as he returns the green bill to his wallet. Taking a seat on the bar stool Loki pours himself a glass of the liquor, more than a little pleased with himself as he waits for his godly companions to arrive.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: MΓ³rrΓ­gan Character Portrait: Loki Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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#, as written by Layla
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Ξ± я Ξ± Π² Ρ” β„“ β„“ Ξ± .

V O L T A I R E.
β€œIt is forbidden to kill;
therefore all murderers are punished
unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.”


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She sewed herself together -
realigning pieces and tacking them with a thread of white and a silver needle that parted her flesh to unite it. Blood blossomed like red buttons where the needle pricked as the fissure cleaved into her shoulder poured fresh rivulets down her arm in a discrepant arch that speared the bronze glow of her skin. The wound inflicted by a dozen measly mortals would leave its memory, when in her wholeness they would have crawled before they walked past twenty paces of her. At least the scar would be lost amongst the innumerable that already caressed the languid body like the fingerprints of corrosion. There was no sound save the rhythmic jabbing of undergoing reparations and the squelch of flesh being pulled taut. The stabbed and stabbing came together the way they fell apart: with an enemy, alive or otherwise, and her indifference.

The duct tape wailed as she unfurled it in one hand, spinning it around her upper arm and the groove of her shoulder to hide the stitches that joined the limb to its joint. She pulled her mangled tank over her head, liberating a navy blouse from its perch in the tailor's closet and slipping into it. The top button dislodged under her brusque touch as she pulled the backdoor shut behind her, her laced boots slapping the jagged pavement as she dived into the crowd nesting in the city. The noises fused into an untuned symphony, snippets of speech and a beast's bark leaping to attention like the jarring clash of cymbals as faces coalesced into a stew that bubbled with something foul. A trail of cold air brushed its fingers along the curve of her spine, pressing a shiver into her bones, or perhaps that was the blood loss. She gritted her teeth and turned her alabaster frame into stone.

The bounty on her head was a modest one, but one she found appropriately insulting. To think a fool would challenge the Goddess of War for that meagre sum - ridiculous. The enemies she made unawares were insurmountable; she was almost impressed by her ability to constantly and efficiently aggravate killers and pacifists alike regardless of her being an oblivious mortal or a vehement Goddess. Her most recent stint resulted in the leader of the Black Suns - cheesy name aside - transforming from man to lump and his various allies scattered throughout the United States searching for a cage fighter that fled from her contract. Said fighter would assert that said contract was no longer valid, as said contractor was dead. She'd left him dangling in his esteemed cage with his limbs askew, blood pooling at his fingertips to collapse on top of his head, a head that was not on top of his shoulders.

The hunt that ensued for his murderer was futile, as their lord's vacant gaze was oblivious to the revenge they would fail to achieve, and deaf to their cries of outrage as he would be to their dying breaths. Their sacrifices were pitiful and unnecessary, Morrigan had simply been correcting a case of identity theft for a fellow deity by disposing of the mortal who'd fancied himself the title of God of Evil and the name Chernobog. She'd shown his loyal but vicious underlings mercy by leaving them relatively intact, punishing them only for the crime of ignorance and blatant stupidity, but certainly not because of any divine weakness that possessed her.

The body of her destination spiralled upwards in a blister of wiry glass that punctured the blue sky with a grandiose as wasteful as it was tasteful, if the latter belonged to the God of Trickery and Overindulgence. Her dark lashes kissed her cheeks as she rolled her eyes behind closed lids. The soaked, soaped, shined doors hissed faintly as she stepped in.

"Do you have a booking?" No excuse me, no welcome, no can I help you. Just a rubber sole tap-tapping against the marble floor in equal parts impatience and anxiety. Good afternoon, miss, she mocked. Is there anything I can do for you, miss. There was an inverse relationship between life expectancies and civility - as more years of life were granted to be wasted, so cordiality declined. The desk clerk eyed the dark patches scattered across the knees of her leather pants before her criticism roamed to the coils of frosted brown hair that had escaped its restraints, and as his disdain wandered past her lowered brows, she gripped him with a frigid stare. He swallowed.

"Lukas SkΓΈyer," she said.

"Can I have your name?" the clerk asked after a long moment of gawking.

"Nemed." His fingers slid across the keys.

"First name?" he prompted.

"What about yours," she glanced at the tag pressed against his pressed suit. "Hilshire?"

"Unnecessary," he replied.

"Okay, Unnecessary Hilshire." His lips thinned into a line straight enough to carve rulers from.

"Miss, this is standard procedure. Our director made it mandatory to protect our guests."

"Please, tell me more, tell me more, does he have a car?" Her fingers drummed against the oak desk as she rested her head on a fist.

"I'm afraid I cannot disclose our client details unless you have some proof of your identity."

"A Wiki page?"

"Pardon?" he asked, but she'd already left, strolling past a pillar as if she were leaving, only to slip into an elevator when the humans averted their attention. The numbers climbed until the doors opened to a flushed bellboy, the joy and bewilderment on his face the only affirmation she needed as she brushed her fingertips along the opening of his pocket and liberated an all-access card from its depths. As she stepped out of the elevator and the panel slid closed between them, he jerked his head around having noticed her for the first time, a dazed film veiling his eyes as he glimpsed the beauty who stood before him. A green light flashed and the locks clicked free when she slid the key card into its compartment. She cut through the room like a lioness through a den of deers until she met her rival. He oozed self-confidence and self-interest from every pore the way humans exhaled carbon dioxide, lazing like a royal castle on a hill or ice-cream on a kid's gluten-free cone.

"Hey, dick."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: MΓ³rrΓ­gan Character Portrait: Loki Character Portrait: Rati Maa Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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ABANDONED
content erased for preservation of creator's work




Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: MΓ³rrΓ­gan Character Portrait: Loki Character Portrait: Rati Maa Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#, as written by Cloud


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L O K I
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"If giving is a gift, and it surely is,
then my gift to you is to allow
you to give to me."

― Jarod Kintz

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Barely had that first beautiful sip of smooth whiskey passed Loki's pursed lips when his expected company arrives. Hints of cinnamon, honey, pears, and a touch of smoke and wood coat his palate, the flavours lingering and developing as dancing eyes watch the army of one strutting through the expansive hotel apartment. Morrigan moves with a deadly grace, as if she could strike the killing blow any second and all in her line of sight - namely Loki at that time - are her potential prey. Loki takes another languid sip of the soft amber liquid in his glass, rolling the sweet, sharp taste of the alcohol around his tongue. His lively smile does not dim, instead it seems to rally at the hostility cascading from the Goddess of War, shining brighter with each passing second as her eyes cut into him. Her contempt entertains him more than anything else, Morrigan's anger only fuelling his desire to prod and tease her, hoping to get a rise out of the warrior goddess. There's nothing more diverting than intentionally pushing her, which is why, as he addresses her, Loki does so with apparent politeness thinly masking clear amusement.

"A pleasure as always Morrigan," Loki purrs, his voice open and warm with that hint of mocking wit always present in his tone as he gifts the Celtic goddess with a charming, albeit mildly taunting, grin. "I trust you had no issues finding your way here?" He adds, sharp blue eyes noticing the key card clutched in the goddess' hand. How Morrigan received the key card is a mystery to the Norse God, though he'd accept without any difficulty that she might have taken it from the front desk, stole it from the bellhop, or murdered a passing staff member.

The Norseman indulges in another measured taste of his whiskey, before waving a hand towards the bottle of spirits as he offers his guest a glass. His tone still carries that note of false deference, a distorted politeness that aims to jab at his visitor rather than comfort her. "Where are my manners? Are you partial to whiskey? I requested an Irish drop specifically with you in mind, my dear. Or perhaps I could interest you in something else, scotch, bourbon, brandy, gin-..." His grin widens as he tilts his head, the teasing gleam in his eyes only intensifying, "...-Oh, don't tell me you're a vodka girl." The God claps his hand on his thigh, as if this revelation is too amusing to keep to a simple grin. "Come, I'm sure we can find something that meets your particular interests."

As he speaks Loki pushes himself to his feet, smoothly making his way around to the server's side of the bar. His fingers float over the collection of complementary spirits lined along the shelf, each glistening with untapped potential and promising pounding hangovers the next day if taken with the right enthusiasm. Naturally, Loki plans on consuming each and every drop before he leaves. It would be a sin not too. As his hand hovers over a crystal clear bottle of Russian Vodka, Loki catches the distant 'ding' of the elevator, followed by the swing of the entrance door heralding another addition to his crew of defectors. Leaving the bottle in its designated slot, Loki turns, eyes catching on the radiant sight of Rati as she glides into the room.

Where Morrigan oozes the type of dangerous beauty that would have a man gripping a sword or gun and throwing himself into battle to gain her affections, Rati is pure sex on a stick. She could drive one insane with desire, literally. Her body moves with an elegant appeal, each step producing a swing of her hips that draws all eyes to the curve of her waist and the perfectly proportioned body. Even her voice is captivating, offering promises of carnal, intimate nights with each honey-dripped word. His cheek is blessed with the touch of her lips, and Loki's humorous grin turns its attention on the Hindu Goddess. Rati's condition for joining his rag-tag group of gods was simple, give her his body, and she'd give him her loyalty. Loki was more than happy to accept the offer, viewing the arrangement as very much skewed in his favour.

"My darling, Rati." He starts in welcome, his hand sliding round to lie against the small of her back while his eyes continue to shine with that same persistent amusement. "You didn't keep me waiting at all." Loki informs her, flicking his gaze to the War Goddess as he continues, "In fact Morrigan and I were just getting reacquainted and, as the excellent host I am, I was offering her a beverage." His hand leaves the small of Rati's back then, reaching to the side of the bar and drawing out two more crystal glasses. Placing them beside his own glass, almost empty of that stunning whiskey, he raises his eyebrows in clear question at the two goddesses. "Before we delve into serious business let us take a moment to relax and unwind. Drinks are in order, so what will your poison be?"

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#, as written by Layla
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ѕнσят ѕкιят, ℓσηg Χ Ξ±Β’ΠΊΡ”Ρ‚.

B R A N D O N. S A N D E R S O N.
"'Why hasn't anyone killed him yet?'
'Dumb luck,' Wit said. 'In that I’m lucky you’re all so dumb.'"


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The Goddess of War was not religious. She did not think any deity was superior to a human simply by virtue of being inhuman; they were as vulnerable to the void as anyone else. As a mortal's life dwindled and the lives of those who knew them followed, so would the imprints they'd abandoned. Humans and their Gods were atoms, flecks that coalesced to form a single grain of sand in a desert that stretched infinitely. She was not religious, because there was nothing and no one worthy of worship. Perhaps she should've given her adherents more credit for believing otherwise.

Whilst Morrigan was not religious, she was certain Hell was a place Loki dwelled. She envisioned with minimal effort the Trickster God devouring seedless grapes fed to him by gorgeous nymphs that doubled as massage therapists as he rested his overinflated ego on silk pillows stuffed with phoenix feathers gathered from the Himalayas. He would probably have dead presidents filing his nails and Leonardo da Vinci rendering him in striking tenebroso so he could fancy himself the true inspiration for the Mona Lisa. Then she wondered if the eeriness of Mona Lisa's eyes following her spectators wherever they went was rendered merely by the strokes of a gifted artist, or if da Vinci really had traded his soul for Loki's illusions.

As she entertained the fantasy of punching the Norse God's taunting grin right into his face, through his skull and deep into the beige plaster cemented to the walls, she heard the whisper of feet as it reached the penthouse. She hardly thought to graze her own consciousness against the visitor's as she edged closer to the bar, stationing herself so Loki was partially obstructed from view - and the line of fire. Her hand darted to the Glock and dagger at her hip before she recalled the fresh wound tearing through her shoulder. She was reminded by a jarring stab of pain that she hid beneath her perpetual scowl. Morrigan's fingers curled around the dagger's hilt. The door swooshed open.

"Hello Loki dear." Rati's voice nudged her into motion as she turned to face the bar after stilling like a knight come to rescue his damsel, only to discover said damsel had been a lump of cabbage all along. She quickly found something else to stare at as the Goddess of Desire pressed her full lips against Loki's cheek, a flush of paint staining Morrigan's cheeks red. It was not as if Rati'd given him a lap dance, but the kiss had seemed strangely intimate, and if there was anything that unnerved a Goddess of Death, it was the threat of new life. Oh Gods. The thought of them fornicating, much less producing offspring... Morrigan balked at the thought.

"My darling, Rati," Loki purred, her name rolling from his tongue like a promise. His hand caressed Rati's spine and the blue of Morrigan's eyes darkened into the slate grey of nearing storms. Her gaze lingered on each finger, prying them off one by one. It looked possessive, sordid, he hadn't asked. She chastised herself for being so quick to defend him, falling into the ancient game that dictated her role as Expendable Chest Piece and Loki as King. He'd roused her from her century of being free from the curse that bound her to the High Kings of Ireland and now her old habits had returned with a vengeance. Foot soldiers were expendable in war, as were generals and strategists - although less so - but the leader, the leader had to live. At least until that narrow window of opportunity when a leader could become a martyr. She'd pushed to defend Loki as the first of their party without a moment's hesitation. Next time, she would let him fall. It was a pleasant moment self-deception in the moment it lasted.

"Drinks are in order, so what will your poison be?" Loki asked. She stared at him.

"The blood of twelve virgins infused with Spanish whale blubber and ground enamel from a dragon's tooth," she said levelly. Her gaze skimmed from the glasses resting on the bar to the bottles lining the shelves. She could scarcely remember the last time she tasted alcohol, if she ever had. Even as an oblivious human she'd avoided it, disliking the way it dulled reflexes and made one stupid. As a Goddess she'd had no need for the liquid substitute for what she possessed in abundance. Furthermore, whatever courage it instilled was counteracted by the fog that blinded drunk warriors and turned them into useless chunks of floundering limbs.

"Coffee. Black," she said finally, tossing Rati a meaningful smile, if the wry and faintly self-deprecating tilt of her lips could be called as generous a thing as a smile. "Like my soul." Sarcasm dripped from every word. Morrigan was well aware of what the other Goddess and essentially what everyone thought of her. She was content living up to and exceeding their tremendous expectations. She lived to please.

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#, as written by Layla
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β„“ ΞΉ ΠΌ ρ.

J A R O D. K I N T Z.
β€œI want to be asexual, because then I could be more productive. But not reproductive.”


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Morrigan amended her prior deduction of Hell. Clearly, it was a monarchy ruled by both Rati Maa and Loki. She wondered if decapitation was effective in transfiguring immortals into still corpses, and decided it wouldn't hurt - much - to try. There loomed only the risk of irreversible organ damage, insurmountable pain or annihilation, but the Goddess of War was confident in her ability to pillage and slaughter and doubted such ramifications would be of consequence to her. Yet to her dismay, Morrigan was not one for hypocrisy and she did not condone needless killing.

It seemed, however, that the Indian deity promoted erotic exhibitionism with valour and not one ounce of modesty. Her voice was liquid honey as she poured sexually evocative meaning from her lips. "Why don't you sit down, darling?" she purred, and it was for the question that invoked memories of commands, punctuated with the familiar croon of darling that Morrigan did not. She'd spent millenniums with enough creatures of infinity and mortality to anticipate the sugar that spilled from their mouths to pour acid down her throat. She recognised the nicety for what it was - a prelude to want. Rati wished something of her and whatever it was she desired, Morrigan would not offer it.

"I'll fix our little war maiden..." Rati continued. Little war maiden, Morrigan mused, flipping the words in her head like she would a coin. Let us see how little of a maiden I am when we are in war. She might have been the youngest in appearance amongst those loyal - although loyal might've been too strong an adjective - but she'd butchered more men than most, if not all of them, at least directly. But her blitheness was quickly stamped into cinders as a flush uncoiled at her cheeks. She jerked her gaze away from Loki's lap where the Goddess of Desire had nestled her palm between his legs. Suddenly she ached for iced water, or better yet, a waterfall to pummel the embarrassment at having witnessed the act of public indecency. She could not bare to imagine, much less witness such intimacy and certainly not between her allies interim. Morrigan had concluded Loki repulsive to the opposite gender - his lack of shortage in admirers notwithstanding - and balked at any evidence of the contrary. It was akin to stumbling upon one's grandparents in the act. She hid her discomfort by glaring at a pigeon cocking its head in question at the window.

"Here you go, my sundara dΔ“vΔ«." The Goddess of Desire appeared before her, pressing the steaming mug into her hands. A grin graced Rati's symmetrical features, and Morrigan rewarded her efforts with skepticism. Sundara dΔ“vΔ«? Was it an insult? Morrigan was a fraction smaller than Rati in height at five feet and four inches, but the narrow heels or rather, instruments of inconvenience, made the Indian woman taller than she was. Morrigan tensed as she felt the brush of soft fingers across the back of her hand. Morrigan's own calloused hands hardened around the mug, her chipped nails caked in blood she'd yet to relieve herself of. A fissure rippled where her index had formed an indentation in the porcelain cup, the only warning before the mug erupted into dozens of alabaster fragments and a pool of scathing coffee that reddened the naked skin on Morrigan's hands. After a pause, she stared down at the remains, her eyes duly noting the blood weaving between her fingers, shallow cuts that were already beginning to heal, albeit at an achingly slow pace compared to before. Morrigan settled her lips into her trademark scowl, lifting her head to glare at the Goddess Rati through a curtain of dark lashes as if it were somehow her fault for giving the War Goddess such a fragile cup.

"Do not," Morrigan warned. "Touch me." I will not be conquered. she didn't say, but the promise was there, and also the threat. Next time, Morrigan would not shatter the cup. She stalked over to the bin tucked beneath the bar, her fist opening to pour the pulverised remains of the black coffee into the container, it drifted from her grip like ashes falling into its coffin. Grim crimson spurted from her palm as she yanked free pieces of porcelain where they'd lodged in her flesh. Her wounded shoulder throbbed with exertion. It was not so much that she could not bear to be touched, it was that she had not been touched for years that bled into centuries and millenniums. She'd been punched, wrestled, kicked and strangled, of course, but never with gentleness or teasing. The lines scissoring across her hands offered her a welcome distraction, the ache a dagger slicing through the haze, the mourning she still felt where Rati's finger caressed. Touch was a strange thing, Morrigan thought. How one could kill and another revive; how sex and rape were only a handful of gestures apart.

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#, as written by Cloud


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L O K I
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"A liar knows that he is a liar,
but one who speaks mere portions
of truth in order to deceive is a
craftsman of destruction."

― Criss Jami

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If asked, Loki Laufeyson will tell you freely with a flickering grin growing across his face, that he prefers his women confident, fierce, and not afraid of pushing the limits of decency. Though fair warning, his answer might just as easily be that his favoured women are proper, submissive, and gentle, depending on his mood. There's no questioning which answer he would offer now, should they chose to ask. His attention shifts from the war goddess' request for coffee as black as her heart, 'We had best make it the colour of blood then.' Loki thinks, to the sweet sound of the Hindu Goddess. If it isn't the way she gently hooks her hand between those same legs, rubbing his crotch with intent, then it's that enticing gleam in her eyes, that look of concentrated mischief that has Loki adamant that his preferred type of woman would align very easily with the Goddess of Desire.

"Absolutely, dearest." Loki replies, his smirk only growing with the promise of what might occur after this meeting has adjourned. Allowing himself to be ushered from the bar, the God grabs his glass and the bottle of whiskey before snaking his way around the bench. Taking a seat on the end stool, Loki pours himself an adequate portion of whiskey into the crystal glass. Letting the bottle of amber liquid rest on the bar counter he gives his attention once more to the two goddesses in his company, swirling his liquor in the glass as his amusement grows.

Rait Maa has a talent for making any act, no matter how apparently mundane, into a sensual affair. Pouring coffee for the War Goddess is no exception. Loki licks his lips as his sharp blue eyes watch with barely concealed interest, his absorption with the scene unfolding before him sparked both by the idea of the two goddesses getting intimate - he would have to watch that should it happen - and the way Morrigan tenses with every touch from the Indian Goddess. The levity in his expression is clear as he observes Rati brushing those nimble fingers against the back of Morrigan's hand, only growing when the sound of shattering fills the immediate area and the mug of coffee once held in Morrigan's hand is reduced to a pile of coffee coated fragments littering the bar top and floor.

The goddess' seething anger is evident in the way she spits her warning at Rati, yet it only produces another full-lipped smirk on the God of Chaos' face, his eyes sparkling as they follow Morrigan while she clears up her mess. "Darling, do try to control yourself." Loki remarks with a teasing grin, "I don't think my budget allows for sexually frustrated destruction of property." Of course, the hotel room isn't being charged to his budget at all, rather every expense is being paid for from the expensive hotel's own wallet. Though the hotel isn't aware of its kind charity, any deity who knows Loki well enough should be aware of the scam, or at least possess some idea that the Norseman would never willingly part with this amount of money without some promise that he will get it back. "Property broken during fits of passionate intercourse however,-..." Loki adds as his gaze shifts to fall on the honey-skinned goddess, "...-is perfectly acceptable."

As Loki takes a leisurely sip of the dark golden bliss sitting in his glass, he turns his attention to the question posed by Rati. He gifts her a smile, pleased with how eager she is to follow whatever devilish plans he might have up his sleeves. "I'm hoping our little chickies-..." Loki begins, rolling Rati's term for the sleeping gods around on his tongue with amusement, "...-arrive as soon as possible. I already have Tore scouting the city. He may be rather simple, but Tore does seem to know a startlingly large number of deities." The God chuckles as he thinks on the African God, shaking his head ever so slightly as he remembers how easy it was to convince the naive god to defect to Loki's cause. The promise of retribution against the humans for destruction of his precious trees was more than enough to have Tore pledging his support. "He's promised to call if he sights anyone who he believes to be a god, sleeping or otherwise." The question of whether or not there are gods in this city is one he shouldn't have to answer, not when the two goddesses before him can sense their presence as easily as he can.

"Once we've settled in here we can go join him. I have a few ideas of where we might start our search. And, if we're lucky, we might run into that adorable little gathering of girl scouts." Loki lets his grin grow at the thought of such an interaction. He holds no fear for the potential threat that group may offer, rather he views them with the type of condescending amusement one might show to a small child who attempts to push an adult one way or another, or a baby bird attempting to defend itself from a stalking feline. Tilting his glass forward in imitation of a toast, Loki grins at the two goddesses, "A toast, to success." He purrs, before tipping his glass back so that the smooth liquid may delight his taste buds once more.

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#, as written by Layla
IXNXXXCXOXLXLXAXBXOXRXAXTXIXOXNXXXWXIXTXHXXXΒ’Xβ„“XΟƒXΟ…Xβˆ‚.

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Ξ·ΟƒΡ‚ уσυя ’ση’єяη.

R I C H E L L E. E. G O O D R I C H
β€œYou are not my sunshine.
You're more like a gust of arctic wind that bursts in and blows out all the candles when the door cracks open.”


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For a moment, neither of them breathe.
But her lungs are traitors. She gasps, and they're filled with air.
She should close his eyes but her hands remain limp, knowing that once she does, she will never see them again. It's silly, she thinks, because she will not look into them now. Not when the blood gushing from the hole in his chest has stilled and not when his eyes are more glass than grey. So instead she leaves them open. She reminds herself that they are
slate grey, like a stormy sky, slate grey, like a stormy sky and she curls against his side.
MΓ³rrΓ­gan lets the cold devour them, and together they stare at the clouds, the stars, the sky.


Morrigan was no one's darling, and the only sexually frustrated people in the room were the two who had their hands and tongues immersed in fantasies of corpulent indecency. She offered them no comment, having deemed them unworthy of anything save the curl of her lip. She ignored the glass Rati raised and the blown kiss that was not for Morrigan as the other Goddess vacated the penthouse. Instead she found the nearest bathroom and dipped her boots beneath the shower head. The water scorched her arm with its cold as she turned the knob but soon hot liquid was pummelling the leather skin. The blood that had cemented itself to them released its grasp reluctantly and flowed in muddy rivulets down the drain.

Her reflection was blissfully buried beneath a thick layer of condensation as Morrigan stood at the sink. Her shoulder throbbed and her palm stung as she scrubbed her hands in the sink, turning the water red and cursing her weakness that she should remain injured. That she'd been injured in the first place. But beneath that was a morbid fascination for the clear water that gushed from the faucet and bled into a murky pink at contact with her skin, that human innovation should make it easier than ever to wash away one's sins.

Morrigan ripped her hair into a tight ponytail as she headed for the door and stepped out of it without a kiss for Loki. Unnecessary Hilshire jerked his neck upright to stare at her, his voice disappearing behind the thick body of the glass doors as she left the hotel. The city uncoiled before her, bodies rushing and stopping in a cacophony of noise she dissected without conscious intent. Awareness was an instinct that never left the Goddess of War. She supposed she should've been grateful.

A bell and a cheery call of 'Three for two!' caught Morrigan's attention as she turned a corner. The rickety cart was decorated with an umbrella soaked in a violent shade of yellow but the scent of refined grains and over processed meat stirred in her an abrupt but familiar hunger.

"Afternoon, young miss! We have a special..." the voice wandered into silence as she met the vendor's cheery gaze, which was soon dissolving into something akin to fear or discomfort. Morrigan stared at him, unaware of the vicious aura she emitted or the scathing glare she was sinking into the balding man. He swallowed. "Uh, I, uh. What do you want from me?" His eyes widened and then he was clearing his throat as if he had a dead rat caught in his oesophagus. "I mean, what can I get you... Madam?" His voice trailed upwards uncertainly.

"Three extra spicy hot dogs," she said, her eyes never leaving his as she read the menu scrawled on his cart with her periphery. "And a triple chocolate ice cream."

The vendor threw himself into action, snatching a cone from a container and nearly toppling the cart in his haste. He forced three large dollops of chocolate onto the single-scoop cone and thrust it into Morrigan's waiting hand. She brought the cone to her lips, tongue darting forward to draw the ice cream into her mouth.



Loki heaves an exaggerated sigh as he’s abandoned, though his eyes are glistening with mirth as he observes each goddess taking her leave in such contrasting manners. Loki has to say that he prefers Rati’s departure infinitely more than the cold silence gifted to him by Morrigan. That sweet pressure of Rati’s supple lips even now leaves him thirsting for more, his need for her only satiated by the knowledge that she will have him later. Morrigan, as pleasant and sociable as always, glides out of the penthouse with naught but a scathing burn to her already tempestuous aura.

Loki does nil to follow after either goddess, not when he’s still cradling a glass half full of whiskey in his hand. With a careless chuckle Loki slides off the barstool, taking a languid sip of that beautiful golden liquid as he does. Only when every last drop has passed down his throat does Loki set his sights on leaving the hotel. Placing the glass on the bar counter Loki checks his pockets, finds his cell phone present, gives a happy whistle, and walks out the door.

There is an upbeat spring to his step, and a cocky confidence that matches the exuberant grin on his face. Loki does so love when his the wheels of his plans begin to spin. Clapping his hands together – and causing a passing maid to jump at the sudden sound – Loki steps into the elevator and descends. As he steps out onto those glorious, chaotic city streets his grin has widened visibly. Taking a deep breath of the car fumes, cigarette smoke, and faint wisps of food, Loki feels more himself than he’s been in a long time.

β€œYou! Boy! ” Loki cries at a young man selling magazines and newspapers on the curb, β€œTell me, has a woman of yay height-…” Loki uses his hand to demonstrate how tall Morrigan stands, β€œβ€¦-and sporting a heart-stopping scowl walked by recently?”

The young man scratches his head, before a memory strikes and he nods. β€œOnly a short while back, she went that way.” He answers, pointing down the street, β€œWhat’d you do to make her so angry, Sir?”

Loki grins and leans in, as if parting with a great secret, β€œI suspect my existence is enough to anger that one.”

The mortal laughs and shakes his head, β€œWomen!”

Loki gives the young man a clap on the back and nods in agreement, β€œWomen.”

With another soft chuckle Loki sets his feet in the direction pointed out to him. He takes his time, enjoying the city in its brilliant, chaotic mess as he walks. There’s order here, in the straight streets, road rules, polite pleasantries and so forth, but beneath is that hectic symphony of human existence that Loki thrives in. It’s enough to keep him pleasantly distracted as he walks, even as he’s following that sixth sense that draws him towards the War Goddess. When he finds her an entertained smile appears on his face, for the scene before him is so foreign to what one would expect of a goddess able to kill with her bare hands

Ice cream is the last food Loki would expect to find the goddess indulging in, and yet there she is, delicately licking at the cold delight. With her back to him and her attention on the ice cream, Loki takes this as good a chance as any to sneak up on the ever vigilant goddess. The sound of his steps are non-existent, his presence all but disappearing as he employs what little magic he has left to mask his approach. He moves with practised quiet, like a seasoned burglar in the night, until he’s gazing over Morrigan’s shoulder, his eyes brimming with obvious amusement.

β€œChocolate?” Loki mutters into her ear, β€œAnd here I was, thinking your preferred flavour was the blood of virgins and dragon’s teeth.”

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#, as written by Layla
IXNXXXCXOXLXLXAXBXOXRXAXTXIXOXNXXXWXIXTXHXXXΒ’Xβ„“XΟƒXΟ…Xβˆ‚.

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Ξ·ΟƒΡ‚ уσυя ’ση’єяη.

L O R A. L E I G H.
β€œTestosterone overload?" Merinus gave an unladylike grunt.
"More like asshole overload if you ask me.”


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She slammed her booted heel into the delicate bones of his phalanges as her fingers caressed the back of his neck. Morrigan leaned forward, using the weight of her opponent's body to toss him over her head. His body kissed the pavement on impact and then she was straddling his waist, her knees digging into his sides. Her forearm met his eosophagus as she withdrew the length of a dagger at her belt, tilting his chin with the end of its wicked blade. The man's dark hair brushed away from his face to reveal the familiar path of a stern jaw, the gentle curve of lips quick to tilt in wry glee and long lashes set beneath a low brow.

Loki.

"You attacked me," Morrigan breathed, the statement a brew stirred through with equal parts accusation and irritation, and even a light sprinkling of awe. To think the God of Party Tricks would be so dim as to weasel his way into the area of her domain. In this, at least, he should possess the acumen not to attempt dominion over her. She remained hunched over him, chestnut curls tickling his face, but she eased the press of her dagger against his throat, her eyes wide with horror. At this rate he would die before he achieved his purpose. Not even her Sight and all the deities united had any chance of saving him from himself. Morrigan had believed she could not think any more of him, but it seemed his lunacy knew no bounds. She could not fathom it. All this while, her chocolate ice cream stood infallibly in her grasp, in the arm that was nestled against his chin.



Loki shouldn’t have expected any less from the war goddess, and perhaps a part of him knew what results his taunting actions might have. She was fast, and strong, and before Loki knew it he was flying through the air to land on the hard pavement seconds later. The wind is knocked from his lungs, his gaze momentarily distorted only to regain focus as Morrigan’s knees lock him in place, her arm pressed tight against his throat while a threatening dagger slides out of her belt to tip his chin back. Even as her eyes widen in recognition, Loki’s tell-tale smirk is growing, amusement fast replacing his own shock as he watches the emotions flashing across the goddess’ face.

β€œI attacked you?” Loki repeats, his voice light and teasing despite the position he’s currently being held in, β€œDarling, I was merely commenting on your choice of ice cream flavour.” His eyes glance towards the ice cream slowly melting in her hand, droplets of dark brown falling to the dirty concrete footpath at irregular intervals. Though her hair obscures a large portion of his vision, her dark locks don’t quite block out the shocked ice cream attendant behind the pair. The mortal man seems to be looking on with apprehension as if uncertain whether or not he should intervene, and if he does then which individual is the one in need of help. Loki bites back a chuckle before returning his gaze to the woman straddling him, his grin only growing as his eyes take a leisurely trip down her body to where her legs hug his waist.

β€œTell me, do you straddle all the young men foolish enough to cross your path, or am I a special case?” He asks in a smooth tone, gifting the goddess a wink when his eyes return to meet her gaze, completely ignoring all signs of frustration clear in Morrigan’s expression.



Morrigan's face warmed and darkened as surely as if he’d splashed crimson paint across her cheekbones. Her skin burned with the need to disentangle themselves from the man stretched out beneath her, even as her bones shifted to press her limbs harder against him. His interrogation was a challenge and a threat and one she would accept. He was not the first man she’d overpowered, he was not even the thousandth. No half decent warrior would scramble from a favourable position such as this because of a handful of absurdities uttered by the less powerful individual. None should be so easily phased by an enemy’s words, the Trickster God's or otherwise, and yet she was. She was vividly aware of every syllable Loki spoke, because it rumbled from his belly in a low hum she could feel between her legs. Every inhalation lifted the muscles of his torso, pressing it against her. Morrigan swallowed the thoughts, burying the sensations rippling uninvited through her body, the fear, and schooled her features into nonchalance.

β€œYou do have an exceptionally small phallus, yes,” she replied evenly, her hips rolling in a minuscule movement. β€œSo in that respect I suppose you are quite the special case. But I’m afraid I straddle all men weak enough to be overpowered by a mere girl.” She flicked aside a strand of his hair where it was caught at the corner of his lips with the tip of her dagger, enjoying the way it grazed his skin without leaving so much as an imprint almost as much as she did the thought of carving it into his chest. Though she was certain she would find no heart worth having there. β€œPerhaps you’d like to reverse our positions? You could try.”

The sudden cry of his phone jarred Morrigan from her momentum. She caught snippets of conversation from the other side, leaning forward to hear the familiar cadence of Tore’s voice.



Sharp eyes watch as a blush dawns across the goddess’ face, the soft rubicund colouring of her cheeks earning Morrigan a smug grin from the god pressed between her thighs. Her words too elicit a muffled laugh from the God, taking the insult as a joke despite the fact that it was quite obviously not intended as such. He’s only given pause when the blade of her knife tracks along his skin, the cool feel of the metal raising the hairs on his arms even if the biting edge to the blade didn’t pierce the skin. Loki has no doubt that should Morrigan chose to, she could carve him into a thousand small pieces in less time than it took the ice cream man behind her to scream for help. Morrigan was deadly without a blade in her hand, but with a knife in her grasp she was a true force to be reckoned with. For all that Loki’s heartbeat doesn’t increase due to fear of the deadly goddess above him, but another primal emotion that he’s much fonder of.

β€œOh darling, how can you pass judgement on my β€˜small phallus’ when you have never had the pleasure of seeing it? We can amend that easily enough, all you have to do is slip you hand-…” His suggestive words are cut short by the shrill ring of his phone. There’s only a few who hold his number that would ring during daylight, and as much as Loki is enjoying their chat, he’s sure that Tore must be the caller on the other end. Flashing Morrigan a winning grin Loki lets his hand run over the woman’s thigh, before his fingers can draw out the phone from his jean pocket. Bringing the device to his face a moment later he’s pleasantly surprised to see Rati’s name flashing on the screen. Accepting the call with the swipe of his thumb Loki brings it to his ear, casting Morrigan a look as if to pause their conversation while he takes the call.

β€œHello love, missing me already?” Loki answers, only for Tore’s masculine words to echo through the receiver rather than the honeyed tones of Rati’s voice. Grinning at his own mistake Loki listens to Tore, an idea of who this goddess might be already forming in his mind. β€œShe won’t have left?” Loki questions when there’s a pause in the Hunting God’s speech. β€œIs she alone?” Loki falls silent as he listens to Tore’s answer before, β€œWonderful work as always Tore. Keep me updated on your search, Morrigan and I will handle waking this one. Oh, and while I’ve got you, tell Rati to behave herself. Toddles.”

Loki ends the call, his tone throughout exceptionally conversational despite the current situation. In fact even as he ends the call and pushes the phone back into his pocket he speaks with the same light and nonchalant manner as one might expect when discussing the weather or the latest sports game. β€œTore has found us our first sleeping beauty.” Loki informs Morrigan, β€œUnfortunately, we might have to postpone your enlightenment for another time. For now, we have an old friend of mine to wake.”